


Flowers Where Your Face Should Be

by starryskeyess



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Florist Keith (Voltron), M/M, Meet-Cute, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Top Shiro (Voltron), dubcon, just bc they are a little drunk when they start smooching, no beta we die like men, semi-public making out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23989366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starryskeyess/pseuds/starryskeyess
Summary: What Shiro isn't counting on is how inevitably drawn his eyes are to the man across the street. Matt catches his look and follows it, also looking at the florist.  To Shiro's surprise, the man is looking back at them.  Shiro has been careful to not be caught staring in the past, but his eyes lock onto the other man's and he's pinned there by his gaze.  He's painfully aware of every breath he takes, the air that fills his lungs too shallowly and releases shakily.  For a moment it's as if the whole world narrows to them and the bold gaze that neither man will back down from.  Slowly, almost lazily, the man raises his hand in a small wave.Shiro meets a very handsome florist, and panics only a little.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 211





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be updated as I go, and the rating may go up to E :)

The air smells like coffee, cinnamon and gardenias. Shiro knows the combination shouldn’t be pleasant, but its a smell he’s come to love over the last month. He stretches his legs and groans quietly, stiff from sitting the last hour in a wooden chair. The chair is too small for his wide frame, almost comically so, but Shiro just shifts, searching for a comfortable position. This morning he brought the local newspaper, and the New York Times. He’s been working on the crossword puzzle, but his pen hangs listless and unused in his hand. He’s distracted, as always, by the sight of the florist across the street.

Shiro has been coming to Balmera Cafe for a long time, both to indulge his voracious sweet tooth and support his friend, who owns the cafe. Usually his trips are brief, stopping inside to chat with Hunk, and to pick up sweet treats and an even sweeter coffee. Shiro always uses Hunk’s baking if he has to bring snacks to a meeting, and when he’s having a particularly hard week, he buys in bulk so he can hunker down and relax in his apartment with science documentaries and sugar. 

Lately though, he’s been spending time here for an altogether different reason.

Shiro remembers the first day he saw the man across the street. He had practically sprinted down to the cafe during work to get cookies--Hunk had made his favorite and texted Shiro pictures of them fresh out of the oven that morning. Shiro’s meeting had ran late, his least favorite coworker trapping him in an endless circular conversation for twenty minutes before he had been able to escape. Shiro was generally patient, but something about Slav sliced his patience into tiny pieces, to the amusement of his other coworkers. He walked into Balmera desperate for sugar and caffeine, and Hunk didn’t disappoint.

Shiro had left with a dozen cookies and a sugary hot coffee, when he noticed the flower shop across the street. The space there had been empty ever since Hunk had bought the cafe, so Shiro had never paid it much notice. Now though, it was overflowing with flowers and plants, bright reds and pastels and so much green. The smell of the flowers mingled in the street with the smell of coffee and baked goods--Shiro had been surprised he hadn’t noticed the shop on his way in. Though to be fair, he was pretty hyperfocused on cookies--it was hard to find much that could take his attention away from sugar once he was craving. His grandparents had never indulged his sweet tooth as a kid, but as an adult he only had his own willpower to rely on, and it was pathetically weak in the face of Hunk’s skill.

More than the luscious greenery, Shiro had been struck by the man standing amidst the plants. He had a sharp face, all angles and cheekbones. His inky hair was pulled into a low ponytail but plenty of strands escaped to frame his face and curl against his neck. By all rights, someone wearing an apron over dirt stained jeans shouldn’t be striking or beautiful but he _was._ Shiro could see slender fingers plucking stems from their resting places, re-organizing arrangements and pouring water from a bright red watering can into small starter pots. He could make out muscles rippling under the man’s plain red shirt, could see how the jeans that were wrapped around mile-long legs strained slightly over his thighs when the man squatted to attend to plants on the ground. 

He couldn’t make out the colors in the man’s eyes, but when those dark eyes rested on him, Shiro felt it like an electric shock. He realized he had stopped short right outside Balmera, and when the man took notice of him, Shiro’s mouth went dry and his hand had involuntarily squeezed around his coffee. The lid had shot into the air with a loud _pop_ and hot coffee had spilled over metal fingers, splattering on his shirt and up his neck. In the time it had taken for Shiro to clean up the mess, the man had disappeared back inside the shop, and Shiro had beelined back to work. His blush hadn't faded for the rest of the day, and Matt hadn't stopped questioning him about it.

Now, a month later, he finds himself pretending to do the Times crossword, but under his sunglasses his eyes follow the florist. He has been spending a couple hours here every weekend, and even doing work during the week from the tables outside Balmera Cafe. Hunk hasn’t commented on it, just smiled knowingly at Shiro while keeping him stocked with goodies. Shiro counts his blessings that it’s Hunk here watching him pine over a stranger, and not Pidge or Matt. Hunk has always been unconditionally accepting, only voicing his opinion when asked, while Pidge is a little too aware of her own genius, and Matt is just plain pushy. Part of what makes Shiro and Matt’s friendship work so well is that so often, Shiro needs the push.

He met Matt in college, they were roommates as freshmen and hit it off immediately. Not only that, but Matt’s mom had taken it upon herself to bring Shiro into the family, inviting him for major holidays when he couldn’t travel to see his grandparents in Japan. Since then he had spent almost every Thanksgiving and Christmas with the Holt’s, and they had absorbed him into their family unit without question. A few years later, when Pidge brought Hunk home, they had done the same with him. Even now, Pidge, Matt and Shiro all worked together a few blocks from Hunk’s cafe, so they were together often. .

As if summoned by his thoughts, two strawberry blonde heads round the corner and bound towards him. Anyone with eyes could see that Pidge and Matt were related, they had the same shaggy heads, mischievous brown eyes, and button noses. More than that, their love languages seemed to both be unrelenting sass, to the point that an outsider may look at their interactions and assume they hated each other. Shiro knows better, knows that the brother and sister are closer than most siblings 5 years apart usually are, and doesn't mind being the calm, patient presence in the face of their attitudes.

Matt’s expression makes it clear that they had already spotted him, and something about it makes Shiro think he also might know more about why Shiro’s here than he had hoped. Shiro takes a deep breath, preparing to at least attempt to lie if Matt confronts him. Matt settles into the seat across from Shiro and stretches out his long legs, leaning back with his hands folded behind his head.

"Hey Shiro. Whatcha doin'?" Matt drawls, and now Shiro is absolutely positive that Matt knows something.

"Enjoying the sunshine,” Shiro says blandly. 

Two can play this game. Shiro has more than enough practice evading Matt's nosiness.

What Shiro isn't counting on is how inevitably drawn his eyes are to the man across the street. Matt catches his look and follows it, also looking at the florist. To Shiro's surprise, the man is looking back at them. Shiro has been careful to not be caught staring in the past, but his eyes lock onto the other man's and he's pinned there by his gaze. He's painfully aware of every breath he takes, the air that fills his lungs too shallowly and releases shakily. For a moment it's as if the whole world narrows to them and the bold gaze that neither man will back down from. Slowly, almost lazily, the man raises his hand in a small wave.

The moment's broken as Shiro whips his head around probably too quickly, looking for someone else, _anyone_ else, that the man might be waving at. But the street is empty, the only occupied table is the one he and Matt sit at. Shiro knows that even under his large sunglasses, his cheeks are bright pink. The florist was waving at... him? At Shiro? Shiro can't imagine why, except that maybe the man really has caught Shiro staring lately, despite his best efforts to not look like a total creep.

"Dude, what the fuck, wave back!" Matt whispers harshly under his breath, breaking Shiro out of his reverie. Shiro starts, staring at Matt open-mouthed. _Wave back?_ He gulps, swallowing a million sharp replies and looks back over at the man. He hasn't moved, except to tilt his head slightly, which just gives Shiro a better view of his pale neck, skin shining slightly with sweat. He almost raises his prosthetic hand, his dominant hand, but changes his mind at the last second and lifts his left hand, wiggling it in an approximation of a wave. Self-consciousness bleeds into Shiro's blush at being noticed.

“Ah, so this is why you’ve been at Hunk’s so much lately,” Matt remarks, entirely too smug.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shiro says loftily. He picks his pen and crossword back up, thankful for the dark lenses of his sunglasses, hiding the way his eyes slide back towards the flower shop. His left hand rubs over the the metal of his right forearm, a self-conscious habit he has nearly left behind. It only comes out at his most nervous or frazzled.

“Shiro, come on. Hunk might have mentioned that you’ve been hanging out a lot, but his face told me the rest. He’s _hot._ ” Shiro has to bite back a growl at Matt’s appreciative tone. He has literally never talked to the guy, has no reason to feel jealous or possessive, and Matt’s not wrong.

Shiro wants to be mad at Hunk for spilling the beans, but he can’t. Matt is a force when it comes to interfering in Shiro’s life.

“You’re the one always telling me to get out of the house!” Shiro answers, just a little louder than he had intended. He slinks in his chair, as if making himself smaller will quiet his words.

“I meant with other human beings, Shiro! Not sitting alone outside a cafe so you can watch a hot guy sell flowers across the street!” Matt’s voice is even louder than Shiro’s, and Shiro pokes him hard in the bicep, and whisper-shouts, “Oh my god, Matt! Stop!”

Matt frowns, rubbing the sensitive spot. The pain doesn’t distract him for long though, looking back at the flower shop. The smile that spreads over his face is sinister, an omen of Shiro’s suffering. Shiro knows that look, it haunts some of his most embarrassing memories.

The door of Balmera jingles open, and Pidge and Hunk spill out, a study of opposites. Hunk has a plate of mini muffins in one hand, the other grasping Pidge’s. Shiro can’t help but smile at he sight of them. They join Shiro and Matt at the table, either clueless to the argument they interrupted, or choosing to ignore it. Shiro guesses it’s the latter.

Pidge knocks her shoulder into Shiro’s gently, and his smile widens. If Matt is catlike in his tendency to push things off of counters while looking right in your eyes, Pidge is in her affection. She doesn’t often have words for her love, but she’s free with gentle headbutts and nudges.

Hunk clears his throat. “So, Shiro…” he trails off, and Shiro’s suspicion rises again. He just doesn’t trust his friends to not try to _help_. 

Since college, Matt has been doing his best to, as he puts it, “get Shiro the quality dick that he deserves.” He valiantly plays wingman to an unwilling Shiro, and has never succeeded. Not that that stops him.

“Yes, Hunk?” Shiro answers, voice only fractionally cooler than usual. Hunk notices, and pales slightly, but continues on. 

“I’ve been thinking about welcoming my, um, new neighbor. The guy who owns the shop over there? And I was wondering if you wanted to go with me?” Hunk’s words take a moment to process, and by the time Shiro realizes what he’s suggesting, his face is already bright red.

He splutters, trying to respond with coherence, but no words come out. His eyes dart helplessly between his friends but he knows they are aligned in this. Hell, they probably all planned it together, the traitors. 

Shiro narrows his eyes, asking, “And why, tell me, would I do that?”

“Because, uh--hm,” Hunk searches for an explanation but none comes. He purses his lips and looks between Matt and Pidge, who aren’t any help. Pidge’s too-wide eyes are pointedly innocent, and Matt is too busy winking at Shiro to rescue his friend.

Shiro sighs heavily. If he doesn’t agree to this, he’s sure they will try something much worse. Besides, Hunk is the least likely of the three of them to embarrass him, on purpose or otherwise.

“I just want you all to know that I know what you’re doing, I _see_ you. And my revenge will come,” Shiro says firmly. He chooses to ignore the pitying smiles that flit across his friends’ faces. All of them, Shiro included, know he won’t do a thing about this.

Matt snatches a chocolate muffin off of Hunk’s plate and gets a light slap to the fingers. He waggles his eyebrows at Shiro as Shiro and Hunk rise and turn to leave. The walk across the quiet street feels like toeing across a tightrope, fighting himself and gravity just to make it to the other side. 

He and Hunk wander around the small shop a bit, taking in the colors and textures of the various plants stacked high on shelves and arranged in neat lines on the floor. The smell of earth and growing things is cloying now, wrapping around them. Another worker Shiro pretends not to recognize, an elegant woman with a sharp face, is talking to a customer, helping her pick out a house plant. The man Shiro has seen is nowhere to be seen, and he’s considering jumping on the opportunity to leave. He could slip away from Hunk, make it back to the cafe, before the other man even notices.

Hunk walks further into the shop, craning his neck to look around. He spots the man and calls out, waving animatedly. Shiro wishes, not for the first time, that he was smaller and could hide behind any of his friends--Hunk isn’t a small man, but Shiro has a few inches of height and shoulder width on him. The man approaches, wiping slender, calloused hands on a soil-stained towel. He’s _gorgeous_. Finally closer than a street away, Shiro can see that his eyes are violet, curious and bright. Those eyes turn to the pair of them with a question in his gaze, his confusion only growing when he sees what Hunk’s holding.

Hunk proffers the plate of mini muffins with a friendly, easy smile. “Hey buddy! I’m Hunk, I own the cafe across the street. And this is my friend, Shiro.” Shiro smiles tightly and nods when the man’s eyes flit to him briefly. His expression is guarded, unreadable. 

Hunk continues comfortably, “I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier, but welcome to the neighborhood! Your shop is beautiful! Definitely much better than the boarded up office that was here before.” Coming from anyone else, the compliment may have felt backhanded, but everything Hunk does is bursting with sincerity.

The man’s lips curl up in a hint of a smile as he shakes Hunk’s hand. He holds his hand out to Shiro, too, and doesn’t react when his hand meets cool metal instead of flesh. Shiro releases a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. He never knows how someone will react to his arm, and somehow he knew rejection from this man would cut deeper than most. And others in the past have _hurt._

“I’m Keith, that’s Acxa over there,” the man, Keith, says, jerking his head at the woman. “Thank you, these look delicious.” Nimble fingers take the plate from Hunk and set the muffins down behind him, on the counter. Once again Shiro’s distracted by the bunch of his muscles under his shirt. 

“I didn’t know what type you might like, so I brought a variety. The ones in the blue wrappers are vegan, and the ones in green are gluten free. The rest are standard, run of the mill muffins,” Hunk says.

“As if anything you bake is run of the mill,” Shiro says with a soft laugh.

Keith’s eyebrows raise fractionally. “Is that so?”

“It is! Hunk’s muffins are amazing. Though if you ask me, his cookies are usually the best thing on the menu,” Shiro answers. His nervousness crumbles in favor of enthusiasm--he loves talking about his friends, about how amazing and skilled they are. Hunk bakes love and comfort into everything he makes, and Shiro can’t praise him enough.

“I guess I’ll have to come over and find out if that’s true sometime,” Keith says, and his voice sounds a little lower, a little conspiratorial. He’s looking only at Shiro, and his gaze feels like a spotlight, warm and a little overwhelming.

Shiro’s breath catches in his throat at the tone. He’s pretty sure Keith could read the phonebook in that voice, and Shiro would gladly listen for hours. He doesn’t realize he’s simply staring, not saying anything back, for a moment too long. He’s pinned to the spot, trapped in the snare of Keith’s gaze.

Hunk clears his throat, looking between the two of them, and says, “I gotta get back to the cafe, but stop by anytime, man! I can hook you up with a friend and family discount if you want! Us small businesses gotta stick together, right?” He smiles warmly and, clapping Shiro on the shoulder, makes his escape. 

Leaving Shiro standing awkwardly, silently, with the man he’s been semi-stalking for a month. A man now standing barely three feet from him, close enough to see the flecks of blue in his eyes, the light dusting of freckles across his nose, and the way the small pieces of hair along his neck curl in the heat.

Shiro looks around, desperate for something to make conversation about. Strands of vines hang down from the ceiling and one bumps against his head as he turns. There’s clearly a system of organization in the shop, but overall it seems a little wild, a little unruly. Different heights and types of displays mingle throughout the shop. Supplies are stacked on shelves or in piles between stands of floral arrangements and plant starters in small terra cotta pots. Shiro wonders what that means about the owner.

“See anything you like?” The rasp of Keith’s voice is pleasant and warm, like a sip of whiskey or smoke on a summer night.

 _Definitely._

Shiro looks at Keith then, holding his violet gaze for a moment. 

“You’re-I mean, it’s all beautiful. I like everything. That is to say--the flowers are really pretty,” Shiro doesn’t remember ever having been this tongue tied. But he’s also never talked to someone this alluring, someone who seems to light him on fire with a simple look. Keith's eyebrow arches gracefully, but he seems to forgive Shiro's stuttering, staying quiet for a moment.

He wishes he could melt into a puddle and slink out the door, but Keith’s smile keeps him solid, together. It's not an over bright or joyful smile, it's a little crooked, sharp, and Shiro feels it like a tight squeeze. “Feel free to look around, and tell me if you need anything.”

He walks away, and Shiro deflates once his back is turned. _What the hell, Shirogane > Get it together! _ He runs fingers through his hair, taking a deep shuddering breath. The renewed flow of oxygen, paired with the disappearance of Keith, clears his head just barely enough to think. Keith is probably just being nice, it’s his job to be nice to customers. Shiro has worked enough similar jobs to know that the worst thing he can do is use that kindness to press his luck and make Keith uncomfortable. 

He decides to buy something. It will give him an excuse to talk to Keith more without being creepy, and he’s supporting his small business! Shiro mentally pats himself on the back at his own brilliance as he searches for something to buy. His grandma used to tell him that flowers all had meanings, and were used to send messages. Which flower means, "You're super hot, please sit on my face and fall in love with me?"

The wall of bouquets next to him is a riot of color. The arrangements range from simple bundles of white roses to explosions of bright and contrasting petals. He walks slowly along the wall, occasionally running a gentle finger over the petals of flowers he doesn’t recognize, or ones with odd textures. Some petals are paper thin, webbed with the faintest veins; others are thick, even rubbery. The more he looks, the more he can appreciate the bouquets-they are artfully and precisely arranged, different shapes and colors playing together in perfect harmony. He wonders idly if Keith arranged these, or Acxa, or someone else entirely.

A large bouquet catches his eye, vibrant in splashes of reds, different hues mingled together in a play of light and shadows. He doesn’t recognize the main flower, a deep red with soft rounded petals with a pop of pale pink in the center. Shiro leans in, taking a deep breath of the bunch, and smelling… _chocolate?_

He leans closer, taking another deep breath, but no, there it is, the smell of chocolate. It’s edged with floral notes, and something earthy and organic, but it’s chocolate. He wonders if maybe his brain is broken, finally demolished by coming to face with a walking wet dream in dirt-stained jeans.

The tag on the bouquet says “Romantic Blooms” on one side, listing a price on the other. Shiro grabs the flowers, and makes his way to the register, hoping to find out if he’s crazy, or if there are really flowers that smell like sweets. Maybe Keith will explain it to him in his honey whiskey voice.

Halfway to the counter, he notices something cold and wet on his leg. Looking down he sees his mistake--the flowers had been sitting in water and that water is now dripping down onto his jeans, forming a steadily growing wet patch on his thigh. Which is how he ends up standing at the counter, dripping water steadily, a pleading expression on his face. 

Keith sees the situation for what it is quickly, and grabs a small plastic bag, taking the bouquet from Shiro’s hands and depositing it in the bag. He wipes his hands on the same towel, and offers it to Shiro. Shiro accepts gratefully with a smile and a murmured thanks. His face is burning as he tries to rub at the wet spot on his thigh but just ends up spreading dirt across his jeans. Of course. He finds sympathy in the face of the man across the counter, and just a hint of wicked humor. A laugh tumbles out of Shiro, self-deprecating and shy. He gives up on trying to dry his pants, giving them a cursory wipe before handing the rag back to Keith. 

“Those flowers… what kind are they?” Shiro asks, hoping to divert Keith’s attention from his predicament.

“These red ones?” Shiro nods. “They’re called chocolate cosmos. Interestingly enough, it’s because they-”

“Smell like chocolate?” Shiro finishes for him. Keith blinks, taken aback for a moment. Then he nods, a smile spreading across his face. 

“I didn’t know that was possible,” he murmurs and delicately sniffs the blooms again, humming in contentment at the scent. Keith is silent, and Shiro worries that’s overstaying his welcome, or making Keith uncomfortable. Another moment passes, and when Shiro looks back up, Keith's face is lax, distracted. It takes another moment for Keith to drag his eyes back up to Shiro's and seeming to process what Shiro had said.

Keith’s face lights up and he says, “Yeah, they’re not very popular flowers, they don't look exotic and people don't really view cosmos to be a 'romantic' flower. But they’re not that rare, plant scents are honestly really weird. There’s lots that smell like candy, and there’s a plant native to Africa that smells like buttered popcorn. Some people say Freesia smells like strawberries, but honestly they remind me of that really gross sugary fruity cereal.” Keith grows more animated as he speaks, and Shiro is enraptured. He wants to listen to Keith tell him about anything he wants, for hours and hours. He asks, “What are your favorites then?”

"Honestly? I can't choose one, I have a few favorites."

Shiro leans in, almost unconsciously. "Like?

It’s Keith’s turn to look shy, cheeks staining slightly as he tilts his chin towards the flowers in Shiro’s hand.

“Chocolate cosmos?” Keith nods, and a slow smile spreads over his face. “I like chocolate.” He’s beautiful, all strong lines and vivid colors. His bangs fall into his face and Shiro’s fingers itch with the urge to reach up and find out how soft the strands are. 

Shiro lifts the bouquet, saying, “I’ll take these.”

Keith blinks in surprise, but recovers quickly. He makes quick work of the transaction, moving with practiced efficiency. He even ties a red ribbon around the bouquet, securing them in the bag and hopefully preventing future leaks. He hands the bouquet back to Shiro with a sharp smile.

Once they’re done, Shiro is hit with the realization that his plan may not have been very well thought through. It’s romantic to _give_ someone flowers, not to buy them from him. What is he going to do with this bundle of sweet-scented blooms? He’s not even sure if he owns a vase to put them in. Keith looks at him expectantly, and Shiro’s mind is blank again. 

Well, not _blank,_ necessarily, but full of the sight of Keith and the smell of chocolate, and definitely empty of anything clever or witty.

“It was… really nice to meet you, Keith,” Shiro murmurs. He smiles, hoping he can convey genuine friendliness and none of the desire he feels looking at the shorter man.

“See you around, Shiro.” Keith’s voice has the hint of humor in it, and Shiro can’t tell if it’s with him or at his expense.

Acxa stops him on his way out, silently handing him a half-sheet of paper with a sly expression, before nodding and melting away back into the scenery. Shiro, flustered, folds and shoves the piece of paper into his back pocket without reading it, and hurries outside.

He makes his way across the street without looking back, and Matt is still seated at the table waiting for him. Matt stands and stretches languorously, smiling a wicked smile at Shiro as he approaches. Shiro wants to smack it off of him.

“Not a damn word, Holt.” Shiro’s tone brokers no argument. But his righteous anger ebbs away quickly, he’s never been able to stay mad at Matt. Not when he ruined half of Shiro’s wardrobe with an experiment gone wrong, not when he let his mom think Shiro was the one who bought them weed over Thanksgiving break, and not any of the times he has pushed Shiro out of his comfort zone. Matt is his best friend, and just wants him to be happy.

Shiro slings an arm around Matt’s shoulder, and Matt takes the opportunity to snatch the flowers out of Shiro’s hands. His smile at Shiro is silly.

“These are… pretty,” Matt says, humming.

Shiro turns back just once, to take one last look at the shop. Keith’s standing out front, the radiance of his profile outshining the blooms surrounding him. As Shiro watches, Keith’s shoulders slump slightly, and he turns back inside. Shiro watches him go for a moment, then turns back to Matt.

“Yeah, they are,” he says.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro learns a new skill, and learns more about Keith.

Shiro manages to get through 3 whole days of work without Matt cornering him and asking . He thought it would happen first thing Monday morning, so he knows he’s on borrowed time. 

They are in a meeting together Wednesday afternoon, one that definitely could have been an email, but Shiro pays close attention and takes detailed notes. He’s wrapping up his thoughts and notes when he looks up and realizes that he and Matt are the only ones left in the conference room, and Matt is sprawled in his chair between Shiro and his only way out.

Matt’s smile is wicked. 

He doesn’t bother with casual small talk, but dives right in, as usual.

“So have you gone back to see Keith yet?” Matt doesn’t bother keeping his voice down, and Shiro cringes slightly at his volume.

He shakes his head. He wasn’t sure how soon was too soon to return after their first conversation. He doesn’t want to make Keith think he really _is_ stalking him, but he also doesn’t want the other man to think he isn’t interested. Shiro has never been this floored by someone, so completely bowled over by their beauty and his own interest.

Not that he hasn’t been _thinking_ about seeing Keith again. Every time his eyes wander to the vase of red flowers on his kitchen table. Every time he opens his bedside drawer and sees the flyer Acxa had handed him on his way out. He hadn’t, in fact, owned a vase, so he had gone out that night and bought one. It was simple clear glass--he didn’t think the flowers needed any extra decoration. They are vivid and beautiful all on their own.

Just like the man he bought them from.

Shiro would be lying if he said his thoughts weren’t filled with Keith. He thinks about him all the time, replays their conversations over and over in his memory. He wonders how it would feel to make him laugh, or blush, or moan. Shiro wants so badly to find out.

“Okay then, what’s your plan then? You are going back there, right? Shiro?” Matt asks, growing more and more concerned at Shiro’s lack of response.

Shiro can’t help the note of petulance that sneaks into his voice as he answers, “Matt, come on. You saw the guy! Plus I just rambled like an idiot and dripped water all over my pants.” He buries his face in his hands, breathing deep.

With his eyes covered, Shiro doesn’t see Matt move until he’s right next to him. Shiro’s hands drop back to the table with heavy thuds, and Matt moves in, putting both hands on the sides of Shiro’s face and pulling his face up. He looks up at Matt, cheeks and lips squished in. 

“Takashi Shirogane, you are just so--ugh.” Matt squishes his face tighter, making a grumpy sound. “So. Stupid.”

He lets go and Shiro shakes his head, clearing it. His movements are deliberate as he gathers his things and makes to leave the conference room. He knows Matt is always speaking with love, but sometimes that doesn’t matter--it hurts anyway.

Is he stupid? Shiro knows that objectively he’s pretty attractive, that’s not the issue--he spends a lot of time in the gym, a habit he’s kept since the accident that took his arm. He needed to maintain his muscle mass and strength in order to get the prosthetic, but he’d found peace in working out. The slap of his feet against the ground as he runs, his muscles flexing in slow repetitive movements, his heart thundering in a constant rhythm… something about it soothes him. Physical beauty was never his goal when he was working out, but it did feel nice to look in the mirror and find he didn’t hate his reflection. Along with the loss of his right arm, his dominant arm, scars criss cross his body, like abstract art painted in pink and silver lines across his skin. It’s been a few years, and with time has come acceptance.

It hadn’t made it any easier for him to put himself out there, though. If anything, Shiro has simply gotten more comfortable being alone. He finds peace and comfort in his routines; work, gym, dinner, hobbies, bed. Even most of his time with the Holts and Hunk are scheduled--Friday movie nights, Saturday coffee and brunch. 

You could set your watch by Shiro’s patterns, but Keith might be a grain of sand, working into the gears and making time stutter and stand still. 

Shiro thinks back to the flyer, the one burning a hole in his nightstand drawer and haunting his dreams. He hadn’t unfolded the mystery paper until he’d gotten home, afraid of the contents and what Matt might do with whatever was written on it. When he finally read it, he thanked his instincts.

It was a flyer for a Gardening 101 class, taught twice a week by none other than Keith himself. It was free, but had a class limit. _Why had Acxa given this to him?_ Maybe they handed them to customers after checking out, and Keith had forgotten. Maybe she had seen how overwhelmed Shiro was, and assumed it was caused by the flora and not by the gorgeous shop owner.

Shiro has been considering signing up for the class. He loves learning new things--though a lot of the hobbies he’s tried haven’t worked out so well. His fingers are too big for crocheting, and it was hard to wield the needle with his prosthetic. The poems he produced in a creative writing class last spring were mildly cringy at best. He had even tried learning to bake! At least until Hunk had kindly but firmly informed him that he was not allowed to step foot in his kitchen ever again, lest he burn the entire cafe down. Eventually he had managed to pull off a batch of chocolate chip cookies that got Hunk’s grudging approval, but anything more complex turned into a health and safety issue.

Gardening has the potential to turn out the same way. His grandma had never let him go near her garden. He was a gangly puppy of a boy, all long flailing limbs and big hands and feet that he hadn’t grown into yet. He had knocked over one too many delicate pots, and killed too many beautiful plants, to have considered gardening before.

Shiro’s finally grew into those long limbs and big hands. He’s broad now, muscles toned and controlled, and he probably isn’t the danger to a garden that he used to be. He doesn’t know if he can keep anything alive; that seems to be a matter of skill instead of muscle. 

He has skill. He could do it.

He keeps thinking about the class, about Keith, the rest of the week. He’s still thinking about it Friday night, when movie night rolls around. Shiro’s hosting this week, and he’s perfectly content snuggled up between the Holt siblings as they watch Star Wars… again. At this point it’s less ‘watching’ and more ‘arguing loudly about theories and science while the movie plays in the background’ but Shiro wouldn’t trade it for the world.

They argue again about what food to get, but ultimately land on pizza. Matt breaks out a case of beer, and they work their way through both. Shiro has never been one to drink much, he’s a deceptive lightweight and gets awful hangovers, but Matt is drunk by 10 pm. 

Matt excuses himself to the bathroom between movies and is gone for a few minutes. Shiro briefly fears for the safety of his plumbing, but dismisses the fear easily. He’s lived with Matt off and on for years now, the other man is barely a guest at this point. When Matt finally emerges, Pidge is burrowing her toes under Shiro’s thigh, despite his protests. Her toes are _cold_. 

Matt walks out slowly, turning something over in his hands. For a moment Shiro can’t process what he’s holding, then it clicks--it’s the flyer. Shiro’s mind flashes back to earlier in the evening, when he had been reading over the flyer yet again, despite having it memorized by this point, before setting it on his bed and walking away. 

The look in Matt’s eye is borderline sinister. He looks at Shiro directly, pleased with himself, and drunk enough to not care that he just violated Shiro’s privacy.

“Matt--no. No. Don’t even start.” Shiro uses his best supervisor voice, with no success.

Pidge cranes around to look past Shiro, curious. Her brow furrows slightly with confusion, and with the vague notion that Matt has probably done something he shouldn’t have. It’s a reasonable assumption to make, most of the time.

“Were you ever going to tell us about this, Shiro? Your chance to hang out with hot florist man twice a week for free? Your sultry Ghost scene, hands buried in the soil together while Unchained Melody plays in the background?” Matt’s ranting by now, flailing his arms dramatically as his voice raises. Shiro knows by now to let the rant run until Matt tires himself out.

“How could you not tell me, your _best friend,_ about this? I’m wounded, Shiro, mortally. Wounded!” He clutches his chest and collapses onto the couch in a low-budget approximation of a thespian death.

Pidge giggles and wiggles her way out from under where Matt has flopped onto her. She shoves at him, but he’s surprisingly heavy, all dead weight.

It’s silly, but the image flashes unbidden into his mind anyway-kneeling over a plot of soil, Keith’s hands pressing gently over his own. Keith’s hair falling in his face, tendrils tickling Shiro’s skin as they dance in the space between their faces. 

No Unchained Melody, though.

His face heats, in embarrassment at the thought, frustration at Matt, the lightest hint of desire for the dark eyed florist in his mind’s eye. He takes the chance to snatch the flyer out of Matt’s hands with a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. 

Matt’s expression is soft, caring. He truly loves Shiro, wants him to be happy, and can’t stand watching his best friend constantly get in his own way. He looks like a drunk puppy, and Shiro’s anger, if it can even be called that, dissolves.

“Seriously, Shiro, you should try it. It sounds great,” Pidge says gently. Shiro looks down at her; her face is a combination of honest gentleness and no-nonsense that’s completely unique to her. His resolve cracks and he ruffles a hand through her short hair fondly. He can hold his own against Matt, but Pidge? Shiro’s always been weak to Pidge.

“I’ll… I’ll think about it,” he whispers. Matt takes it as the victory it is, his smile is wide and toothy.

On the downside, he spends the rest of the next hour belting out the words to Unchained Melody. Shiro and Pidge pelt him with pillows, but he goes on bravely, until the neighbors bang loudly on the shared wall. The three of them dissolve into giggles after that, and Pidge calls it a night. She kisses both of their cheeks on the way out, promising to text when she makes it home, like always.

Matt, hitting the sleepy stage of his utter drunkenness, passes out on Shiro’s couch. Shiro covers him with a blanket and tidies up the mess of pizza boxes and beer bottles quietly, before he goes to bed. Just in case, he locks his bedroom door--Matt is a notorious sleep walker and likes to snuggle. 

Shiro leaves the flyer on his bedside table, this time on top instead of stashed away in the drawer like a dirty secret. 

-

Matt sleeps through Shiro leaving for his morning run, his return, and his shower after that. Shiro thinks about rousing him, but decides to let him sleep, and make his way to the cafe by himself.

His walk to Balmera is quiet, peaceful. It’s still early on a Saturday morning, so the rush of people out shopping, or starting their socializing for the day. Shiro takes his time, taking deep breaths of spring air as he walks. He’s always loved spring, life blooming and beginning anew everywhere. The air smells like earth and growth and _hope_.

When he reaches the street he’s walking towards, his eyes are drawn not to his destination, but as always, to the flower shop. The spiky lettering proclaiming the shop’s name, Blooms of Marmora, is practically hidden under looping vines and bright flowers. Shiro wonders what it means.

Balmera isn’t super busy, but there are regulars peppered through the cafe, seated in chairs and couches. Shiro hears Hunk before he sees him. His laugh booms out from behind the counter, loud and joyous. Shiro’s smiling before he even reaches the counter, and takes a half-step back in surprise when Hunk pops up seemingly out of nowhere. He’s holding a stack of paper cups in his hand, that he must have been grabbing from the cabinets under the counter.

“Just you this morning, Shiro?” Hunk asks, already starting on Shiro’s drink.

He nods, humming his assent. “Matt hasn’t moved all morning, he honestly might be dead. Guess I’ll find out when I get home?”

Hunk’s laugh booms again, and he shakes his head. 

“He’s always been a hard sleeper. Pidge said you guys had a pretty late night, too?” he asks.

Another nod from Shiro.

“It was pizza night, so Matt ate himself into a food coma and hasn’t left the couch since.”

“No more nighttime shenanigans?” Hunk asks with another quieter chuckle.

A few months ago, after movie night, Shiro had woken at 4 am, with a very clingy, and very gassy Matt wrapped around him. He’d been locking his doors anytime Matt stays over since then.

“I’ve been sleeping near Matt long enough to know not to risk it after pizza night. He’s in total denial of his lactose intolerance, even now,” Shiro says, with a laugh. 

He hears a choked sound behind him and spins around, half expecting Matt to have dragged himself off of Shiro’s couch to accompany him.. But what he finds is Keith. He’s a vision in a black henley and light wash jeans, both peppered with flecks of soil. His hair is loose today, and spills around his face wildly. His eyes are wide as he looks up at Shiro, swirls of dark violet and indigo, and it takes a moment for Shiro to stop staring and say something.

“Oh! Keith, hi. Good morning. Hello,” he snaps his jaw shut to stop more panic-induced greetings from blurting out. Keith recovers with far more grace, murmuring Shiro’s name in greeting, the smile on his lips not quite reaching his eyes.

Shiro stands a moment more, not sure what to say or do, but desperately wanting to talk to Keith. He wasn’t expecting to run into him in the cafe, and if he’s honest with himself, he was probably going to go home without stopping at the flower shop. He’d spent the whole morning trying to talk himself into, or maybe out of, signing up for the gardening class.

His reverie is interrupted by Hunk clearing his throat. Shiro rips his eyes from Keith and turns back to Hunk, eyes pleading for something, he’s not even sure what. Hunk looks around him and speaks to Keith, asking him what he wants. Keith orders a large black coffee and, with a bit of a mumble, one of Hunk’s sugar cookies, the ones decorated like tulips. Shiro remembers Keith talking about “too-sugary cereal” and he drinks his coffee black, so it’s likely that sweet pink cookies don’t exactly fit into his whole _thing._

Hunk, ever the lifesaver, pours Keith’s coffee and makes gentle small talk to fill the awkward silence left by Shiro. Keith doesn’t seem overly talkative, as a rule, but everyone is friendly with Hunk. It’s impossible not to be, the man exudes comfort and safety.

He realizes he’s just standing near Keith, hovering with no purpose, so he finds a seat at the bar near the register. At least this way it doesn’t seem like Shiro is waiting to talk to Keith more, but that he’s conveniently sitting nearby, _just in case_ the other man wants to talk more. Smooth. 

Coffee and cookie paid for, and slipped to him in nondescript packaging, Keith turns to leave. He hesitates for a moment, and when Shiro looks up, he sees the other man looking at him. Shiro smiles, a tentative offering.

Keith smiles back, and says, “See you around, Shiro.”

The warmth Shiro feels then isn’t like the warmth he gets from Hunk. It’s a wildfire racing through his veins, burning sun on a summer day. It’s not not warmth, it’s _heat_. He keeps his head down, fiddling with his coffee cup, as the door opens and closes with a light twinkle. When he looks back up, Hunk’s leaning on the counter across from him, chin in his hands and a goofy grin on his face.

“No. Not you too,” Shiro says warningly. 

Hunk just hums and stays where he is, smiling at Shiro knowingly. 

“Hunk!” 

“Come on, Shiro. Go talk to him”

“I need new friends,” Shiro grumbles under his breath, but he doesn’t mean it. He loves his pushy, meddling friends, even when he’s being pushed by many hands right out of his comfort zone. Maybe especially then.

Hunk pushes off the counter and starts walking away. He calls, “I heard that!” over his shoulder as he goes. Shiro fusses with his coffee cup, not really drinking it, for another minute. He takes a steadying breath and launches towards the flower shop before he can change his mind. 

There are a few customers milling about outside the shop. An older couple bends to smell flowers, smiling at each other and commenting quietly on the scents. His eyes scan the outer displays for any sign of Keith. He’s not outside; Shiro stoops under the vines that dangle above the doorway and is hit with a wave of cooler air, and the earthy smell of the shop. He swears he can still smell the hint of chocolate through the notes of dirt and pollen.

A few more people are inside,including Acxa. She’s in quiet conversation with a teen girl looking at displays of succulents. Shiro wanders farther inside and hears shuffling towards the backdoor of the shop. The door is open, leading into a small greenhouse. The glass walls are lightly swirled with green and blue, casting a rippling light onto the room. He sees Keith, squatting to pick up a large bag from the top of a pile and heft it over his shoulder, before spinning to face Shiro. He doesn’t remember moving, but his steps must have carried him into the room, and he’s only a few feet from Keith.

“Fuck!” Keith yells, and the bag on his shoulder thumps to the ground, spraying dirt all over the floor, and all over Shiro’s legs and feet. Not dirt, Shiro realizes as he takes a deep breath, fertilizer.

Keith’s eyes are wide and they’re both frozen, staring at each other with wide eyes. Fertilizer trickles out of the edge of the bag where it’s burst open, and it’s the only sound in the quiet room.

Keith seems to recover first, and says, “Shiro! Fuck, I’m so sorry. You… you surprised me,” he says.

To his own surprise, Shiro… starts laughing. The laughter bubbles out of him, doubling him over and shaking his frame despite his efforts to quell it. Keith freezes again, a bewildered look on his face. He recovers after a moment, moving quickly and with mostly steady hands he grabs a rag and a broom from where they lay against a nearby worktable. Keith bends slightly and starts to reach out with the rag, and for a moment Shiro thinks he might kneel to wipe the fertilizer from Shiro’s joggers. But Keith just straightens, and holds the rag out to Shiro, who accepts with another small chuckle.

Keith starts sweeping up the fertilizer around Shiro’s feet, and starts apologizing again, but Shiro stops him with an upraised hand.

“Honestly, it’s probably my own fault. I’m not sure if I’m even allowed back here,” Shiro says, looking a little sheepish. It’s Keith’s turn to laugh.

“You’re right, this area isn’t usually open to customers.”

_Oh._

Keith hurries to say, “But I don’t mind! You’re, um, it’s fine.” His smile is a little wobbly, but Shiro accepts it and smiles back. Having cleaned as much fertilizer off of himself as he reasonably will be able to, he hands the rag back to Keith. Keith is still trying to sweep up the spill, but the bag is still spilling slowly onto the ground. Shiro stoops and picks up the bag with one hand, using the other to roll the paper of the bag back into place and stop the trickle of dirt.

He turns back to Keith to ask where he should take the bag, but the other man is just… staring at him. His eyes are dark, and his cheeks tinged pink. Shiro shifts incrementally, a habit from years ago that he thought he had left behind. After his accident, he got so used to positioning himself to hide his right arm, that it took years of all of the Holts and eventually Hunk nudging him every time he tried to break the habit. But it’s been a while since someone has _looked_ at him like that, and he’s quailing under Keith’s gaze.

“You-strong-um, you’re really strong.” Keith mumbles, finally as tongue-tied as Shiro has been. 

_Oh._ Keith wasn’t looking at his arm, he’s… impressed? Shiro straightens, and shifts to face Keith head on again. He lifts the bag slightly, and asks, “Where do you want this?”  
Keith shakes out of his stupor and points to a corner where more bags are piled. Shiro sets the bag down gently, careful to put the split side facing up so more doesn’t spill out. He brushes off his hands and turns back to Keith, who is still standing still, watching Shiro’s movements. 

“I really didn’t mean to startle you, I just didn’t see you up front, and…” Shiro trails off, realizing what he just admitted to.

“Were you looking for me?”

“No! I mean, yeah, I-just wanted to say hi?”

Keith’s mouth curls at the edges, and even that small smile softens his sharp angles. Shiro knows his excuse is flimsy, especially since he just saw Keith in Balmera maybe 10 minutes ago. But Keith doesn’t push, doesn’t dig in.

He smiles wider, and Shiro’s heart flip flops in his chest. “Hi,” he says quietly.

Shiro exhales, hard, and answers, “Hi.”

They stand for another moment, before Keith moves to go inside, and tilts his head towards the shop, inviting Shiro to follow. They re-enter the store together, Shiro stooping slightly to get through the door. Once they reach the main floor, Keith looks around, then back at Shiro.

“Anything you’re looking for today, Shiro? Another bouquet, a living plant, maybe?” he asks, only a hint of mischief in his eyes this time.

Shiro laughs, and shakes his head, “Not a living plant, that’s a terrible idea.”

“Not much of a green thumb?” Keith asks.

“I am not sure I’ve ever managed to not kill a plant. My grandmother never let me anywhere near her garden, I was always knocking things over or breaking them.”

“That doesn’t sound like you ever got a chance to grow anything for yourself. Who knows, you could be good at it,” Keith says, and something about his tone makes Shiro’s cheeks heat.

He ducks his head, looking out from under his fringe, and murmurs, “Guess I should find out.”

“Guess you should.”

As they’ve talked, somehow their bodies have shuffled closer, and now they’re standing face to face with very little space between them. The air between them is tight, full of something, and neither of them seem willing to break the tension.

Until Shiro whispers, “Any recommendations for a good place to start?”

“Yeah,” Keith replies. But he doesn’t move, or say anything else. He’s so close now that Shiro can tell his eyes aren’t totally purple. There are specks of blue, and they’re almost black around the edges. They look like cool water on a starry night, and Shiro wants to dive into them.

Keith clears his throat. “Oh, um, follow me, then.” He turns and starts walking at a brisk pace, and Shiro blinks slowly, surprised at the abrupt change, and follows a moment later. They make their way towards the front of the shop, where shelves of potted plants stack to just above Shiro’s head. Keith browses the pots, mumbling quietly to himself and spinning different pots around, clearly searching for something specific. He finds what he’s looking for on a chest level shelf, pulling out three small pots sporting small sprouts. Rounded pale green leaves pop out of the soil, they look friendly. 

Keith gestures at the pots, and says, “Pansies. They’re hard to kill, and actually really pretty. They just need a lot of sunlight, and good drainage. They’re definitely one of my favorites. We have yellow,” he lifts one of the pots slightly and Shiro sees a small yellow tag sticking out of the soil, “red, and violet.”

“Violet,” Shiro answers, without hesitation. Keith blinks, surprised at the speedy response. He hands the pot with the small purple tag to Shiro and puts the others back.

“Let me get you everything else you’d need to get started, if that’s okay?” Keith asks, looking over his shoulder at Shiro as he starts to walk along the wall. Shiro’s struck again by how handsome Keith is, the graceful lines of his body as he walks. He follows slowly, holding the small pot in his hands like it’s a wounded bird, gentle and reverent.

“Of course.”

Keith asks him questions as they walk--does Shiro live in an apartment or a house? Does he have space outside? Wide window ledges? What direction do his windows face?--and he grabs supplies from shelves as Shiro answers. He hadn’t realized there were so many factors to consider.

“These are your favorite? I thought it was chocolate cosmos.”

“I told you, I can’t choose one favorite. I have a… a handful,” Keith says. His eyes shine with playful humor. “It’s not really fair to ask a florist his favorite flower! That’s like asking you to choose a favorite…” he trails off, looking at Shiro for help.

Shiro comes to his rescue, murmuring, “Star in the sky.” He knows he must look dazed when Keith’s eyes meet his, he’s not sure he meant to speak at all. Shiro recovers after a moment, and continues, “Star in the sky. I’m in aerospace, over at the Garrison.”

Keith nods and hums low, still looking at Shiro. Then he speaks, voice soft and almost intimate.

“So do you have one?”

“Hmm?”

“A favorite star?” He seems closer now, close enough that Shiro can see the individual dark lashes framing his gaze.

 _The ones in your eyes,_ Shiro thinks.

He clears his throat, shaking his head slightly and trying to remember what Keith had actually asked him, “Um, no. I mean, I have… a handful.”

Keith’s answering smile is wicked, and Shiro’s mouth goes dry. Keith is _breathtaking_ when he smiles like that, sharp angles all on display. Shiro wants to discover all of his angles, the edges of his face, his sharp canines, the curves and sharp edges hidden by his clothes.

Keith continues speaking, oblivious to the want shimmering through Shiro, “Actually, if you wanted to learn, I still have a couple spots open in my Gardening 101 class. It’s free, but you get to leave with a couple plants, and hopefully the ability to keep them alive for a while.” There’s the hint of a laugh in his voice, as well as something else. Hope, maybe? 

“Oh! Yeah, actually, I knew about that.”

“Really?”

“Mmhm. Acxa handed me a flyer for the class last time I was here.”

Keith’s face darkens, and he looks like he’s going to have some words with his employee; it makes Shiro want to giggle. He’s sure his face looks similar when he learns of new and creative ways that Matt interferes in his life.

“I’d love to learn, though!” Shiro says, and hopes he doesn’t seem too enthusiastic.

But Keith’s smile is back, and it lights up his whole face. They make more small talk while Keith rings up Shiro’s items, talking about Keith’s dog, Shiro’s work, a game they both play. Talking to Keith is so _easy_ , he’s smart and his humor is sharp and just a little bit dark.

“So… Tuesday, then. 6:30?”

“Yep. The front end is open until 7, so you can just come in the front and head back here. Bring clothes you can get dirty in.” Shiro’s face heats at Keith’s mouth shaping the word ‘dirty’ but he nods and pretends his mind isn’t racing with possibilities. He’s focusing so hard on not making a suggestive remark about getting dirty with Keith, that what he says next is entirely outside of his control.

“It’s a date.”

Keith’s eyes widen, in surprise or confusion or something else entirely. Shiro, not for the first time, wants to melt and trickle out the door as an amorphous blob. He hurries to correct himself, “I mean, no. Not a date. Since it’s a class, and you’re the teacher, and I’m the student, and it’s a class.” Smooth, Shirogane.

“Class, not a date,” Keith repeats slowly. He’s not looking at Shiro anymore, studying the floor between their feet and shifting his weight like he’s ready to bolt. Shiro bolts instead, taking the opportunity to run out the front door, shouting a haphazard, “See you on Tuesday!” over his shoulder as he walks as fast as his long legs will take him.

-

The days are getting longer, so it’s just before sunset when Shiro gets to the flower shop on Tuesday evening. Golden rays of light streak through the skylights, and the pink and orange hues filter through the stained glass of the greenhouse, filling the room with rippling violet. Keith is awash in it where he stands at the far end of the room. The shifting colors paint his skin and dance in his hair. 

Shiro’s pretty sure he couldn’t take his eyes off of Keith if it would save him from certain death, but a gentle bump into his back does the trick. He turns quickly, startling an older woman who barely reaches his chest. Her eyes are wide as she takes Shiro in with a glance up and down his body. She stands proud, despite her diminutive height, and doesn’t back down, instead saying, “Young man, it’s rude to stop right in the middle of where people are trying to walk.”

Shiro apologizes profusely and gets out of her way, even going so far as to pull out a stool for her, which she accepts with a regal nod. As Shiro finds his own seat, he realizes Keith has been watching the interaction and has a big goofy smile, one that seems reserved for Shiro. Shiro shrugs and smiles back, and takes in the setup.

Worktables have been set up in rows along either side of the small greenhouse, each equipped with supplies: medium sized clay pots, seed packets, a trowel, a small watering can. More people filter into the space until almost all of the tables have one or two people sitting at them. A few minutes after 6:30, Keith stands at the front of the room and clears his throat.

“Welcome to Gardening 101! Um, I’m Keith, and over the next few weeks I’m going to try and teach you the basics of gardening. We will be planting flowers today, but we are also going to learn about everything that helps a plant grow, and thrive.”

Shiro listens, attention rapt on Keith as he talks. His passion for the subject is clear, and he’s a great speaker once he gets going. Each “lesson” or thing Keith teaches is accompanied by an activity, so it never gets boring. He tells them about soil, about the different elements found in soil and which ones are most important for which plants. While he talks, Shiro and the other students join him in the front, where pots with different types of soil sit. He encourages them to touch the soil, smell it, get a feel for how each type is different.

They pick out flowers from a selection of “hard to kill” options: marigolds, pansies, impatiens, begonias. Shiro chooses snapdragons, mostly for the name, but he beams when Keith nods his approval. He probably would have chosen violet pansies if not for the seed starter already sitting on his windowsill at home. He could have put it in his living room, but there’s something really lovely about waking up in the morning and rolling over to see the reminder of Keith.

Towards the end of the class, they finally plant their seeds. Each type needs a different depth, density and amount of water. Keith stops by Shiro’s table and reminds him that snapdragons shouldn’t be buried in the soil, just gently pressed into the top. Shiro places and presses the seeds into his soil with reverence, careful not to push too hard.

Shiro looks up and finds Keith still standing there, eyes fixed on Shiro’s hands where they rest in the dirt. He stops what he’s doing and looks back at Keith, curious.

“That’s good, really.. You’re doing a great job, Shiro,” he says. They’re both blushing, neither one able to break the silence, until another student calls out to Keith for help. 

Shiro tries not to hover as the class ends, washing both of his hands in one of the sinks in one corner and drying them slowly while Keith chats with another student. It’s the woman from earlier, who Shiro has learned is named Cheryl, and is retired and wants to keep a garden at home, but keeps killing the plants her grandkids get her. 

When it’s clear that Keith isn’t going to be wrapping up his conversation anytime soon, Shiro decides to cut his losses and head home. He smiles and waves at Keith on his way out, and Keith’s answering look is rueful. It seems like he wanted to talk to Shiro, too.

-

Classes continue every week, and by week 4 Shiro has what’s starting to look like a real flower! He’s using what he learns in class to keep his pansies alive, and they are starting to bloom, too. Last week Keith gave him his phone number, and Shiro has been sending progress pictures of his flowers almost every day. Not that they usually look that different from one day to the next, but Keith always replies, encouraging Shiro and sending him tips. 

It’s gotten much easier for Shiro to be around Keith without making a huge mess of himself or doing something embarrassing. It’s not because his attraction has lessened, if anything, it’s stronger than before. It’s just that he really _likes_ Keith. He is arguably the prettiest man Shiro has ever seen, but he’s also an amazing listener, hard working, and secretly a little bit of a dork. He sends Shiro pictures of his huge dog, Kosmo, and plenty of ridiculous memes.

This week, Shiro made a decision. When class is over, he’s going to ask Keith out to dinner. There’s a mexican restaurant down the street that he thinks Keith will like, and he seems to like Shiro, at least as a friend. Each class, each silly text that has him smiling goofily, each conversation, has Shiro falling harder for Keith. 

And so he hovers at the back of the class, shifting his weight and waiting impatiently as Keith finishes up a conversation with a young woman. She’s asking Keith questions and looks enamored with his answers, twirling her hair around her fingers and tilting her head as he speaks. Shiro wants to laugh at both how obvious she’s flirting, and how oblivious Keith seems to be to it. After a few minutes she gives up and drags her feet on her way out, leaving just Shiro and Keith alone in the dying light.

Keith is stacking supplies and putting them away, so Shiro joins him. Between the two of them the task is quick, and they work in an easy silence. At least, until Shiro finds the courage to speak.

“Uh, hey, Keith?”

“What’s up?”

“Do you want to grab dinner with me right now?”

Keith rocks back on his heels, looking stunned, but his expression soons shifts to conflicted.

“You don’t have to! I just thought, it’s nice out and there’s a really good Mexican place down the street, and they have amazing tacos and I’m _starving_ and…” he trails off, confidence dwindling with each word. 

But Keith smiles at him, radiant and warm, and nods. “Sure, that sounds great.”

The air is crisp, but not quite cold, on their walk to the restaurant. A thick silence wraps around them as they stroll, but it’s quickly broken. By the time they reach their destination, Keith is doubled over in laughter while Shiro regales him with stories of Pidge in college, trying to fight men twice her size after a few drinks and her sober methods of exacting revenge in evil genius ways the next day.

The restaurant is busy, teeming with life, and Shiro and Keith find a small table to squeeze into in a corner of the space. They each order some tacos, planning to try each others’ choices--the restaurant advertises some bold flavor and food combinations and Shiro’s stomach rumbles in interest. Shiro debates internally about getting a drink for a few minutes, but decides to get a single margarita. 

Their waiter brings them drinks, bright pink margarita for Shiro, whiskey and coke for Keith. Shiro fiddles with his drink, taking a sip and wincing at the bite of tequila. Normally one drink wouldn’t impair him too badly, but this one seems stronger than usual. He takes another sip, prepared this time, he can’t stop the small hiss he lets out from the burn.

Keith is people watching, looking around the room, dark eyes darting from face to face. He’s turned his body slightly so he can see more of the room, and Shiro takes the chance to study him. His long slender fingers drum lightly against his glass, fingertips shining with the condensation. His t-shirt hangs loose on his frame, giving Shiro a tantalizing glimpse of sharp collarbones, lightly freckled skin, and a few dark hairs in the center of his chest. 

Shiro wonders what the rest of him looks like, if his lean lines and wiry muscles continue down his torso. He wonders what it would be like to run his hands, his mouth, over Keith’s skin; he wonders how Keith would sound, his breath, his voice, what sounds Shiro could wring out of him. 

Too late, Shiro realizes most of his drink is gone, and he’s already starting to feel warm and just a little blurry at his edges. He pushes the margarita away from him and grabs his water glass, holding it between his hands and relishing the coolness of it against his palms.

Keith finally looks back at him, smiling softly when he catches Shiro’s gaze.

“So, you’ve been here before?” he asks.

“Yeah, Matt has dragged me here a few times. Insider tip: don’t tell them if you ever come in on your birthday. They put a huge sombrero on you and you have to wear it the whole time,” Shiro replies, laughing, but Keith doesn’t join him. He’s gone quiet again, looking for something in the bottom of his glass.

The silence between them is heavy and full, wrapping around their table and muffling the raucous noise all around. Luckily, their waiter returns with a spread of tacos, and Keith smiles at him over the food, the moment of awkwardness firmly left behind.

They talk as they devour the tacos, and Shiro is more relaxed after a few minutes than he remembers ever being with someone. Keith asks him questions about himself, but never the ones he expects. He doesn’t ask what happened to Shiro’s arm, he asks what inspired him to want to explore space. He asks Shiro about his current job, about some of his past hobbies, about his family and his summers in Japan.

Shiro almost expects Keith to be blunt, clipped, but he answers Shiro’s questions easily and without discomfort. Shiro learns that Keith’s dad loved to garden, and that he taught him to care for living things with gentleness, even when he was an angry teenager. Even more so when he was a grieving young adult.

Keith doesn’t elaborate much on his dad’s death, and Shiro doesn’t ask. Keith does tell him about his dad’s house, which he inherited. He renovated it after he went back to college, changing his major to botany with a minor in business. He’s animated, telling Shiro about all of the different projects he’s taken on over the years, even pulling his cell phone out of his pocket and swiping through before and after photos. 

Keith looks so damn cute, pride shining in his dark eyes as he talks, and Shiro knows his answering smile must be moony. Keith’s photo gallery on his phone seems to be full of home improvement and blurry pictures of his dog, Kosmo. When Shiro asks to see more of Kosmo (like he hasn’t saved every picture of the giant dog that Keith has sent over the past weeks), he pulls up a couple videos of Kosmo playing fetch, tug of war, and a very dark grainy shot of Kosmo howling melodically while Keith tries to soothe and quiet him. Keith’s voice is rough, husky with sleep, and Shiro guesses that it must be the middle of the night in the video. He can’t help imagining that voice in his own ear, on a lazy morning in his own bed. Shiro tries to quiet the thoughts but they are unavoidable, and he squirms in his seat.

Keith notices his discomfort, and blushes. He starts to put his phone away, quietly apologizing, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bore you with this stuff,” Shiro leans in and catches his wrist, holding it gently enough that Keith could easily pull away if he wanted to. But he doesn’t, slowly relaxing into Shiro’s touch. When Keith meets his eyes again, their faces are closer than before, and Shiro’s drowning in the depths of Keith’s eyes again. Spending time with Keith has gotten easier and more comfortable, but in moments like this, Shiro still feels like a castaway lost at sea, tethered to Keith’s gaze and trusting something about it to keep him safe in the storm. 

Keith leans in a little too, until Shiro’s sure they’re sharing the same air. The margarita is still flowing in his system, blood thrumming under his skin and thundering in his ears. The rest of the restaurant feels fuzzy, indistinct, as Keith gets closer. His eyes dart down to Keith’s mouth, lips parted and tempting, and back up, his pulse pounding louder when he sees the _desire_ shimmering in Keith’s expression. 

Just when Shiro thinks Keith will close the distance between them, something in his face shifts, and he leans back, pulling his hand quickly out of Shiro’s grip. The closed, confusing expression is back, and Keith breaks their gaze to put his phone in his pocket and take a drink. Shiro lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding and leans back, reeling a little. He really thought he was reading Keith’s signals correctly, but he must have been wrong. 

“So it’s just you and Kosmo? No other pets?” Shiro asks, hoping to steer the conversation back into safe territory.

“Just me and Kosmo. We get some wildlife in the garden, there’s a pretty vicious family of bunnies that always go after my hibiscus plants”

Shiro laughs, and feels the tension the last few moments caused start to melt out of his shoulders and back. He asks, teasingly, “Vicious bunnies?”

Keith is indignant, but his voice is tinged with laughter when he answers, “They are monsters! I sent Kosmo out one day to shoo them away, and he came back limping and yelping from a bunny bite! Now he won’t go near them.”

The image of Keith’s giant wolfdog cowering from a pack of bunnies has Shiro doubling over in laughter, holding himself up with his prosthetic on the edge of the table. Keith joins him and his laugh is like a song, light and joyful. 

“Maybe that says more about your dog than about the bunnies.”

“Probably.”

As their laughter fades, it’s replaced with a comfortable quiet, traces of the earlier tension dissipated completely. Their waiter returns and Shiro and Keith argue for a moment over the check, but eventually Keith caves and lets Shiro pay. He wants to make a joke about letting Keith get the next one, but he’s not sure there will be a next one. 

It’s been a while since Shiro was really interested in somebody, so he feels pretty out of his element with Keith. Keith is gorgeous and interesting, a brilliant blend of passionate and grounded, and every new thing Shiro learns about him makes him want to know more. He wants to hear the thoughts Keith has when he’s trying to fall asleep, wants to hear his boring childhood stories, to hear a detailed recounting of all of his days. 

And some of the time, it seems like Keith wants something similar. The way he looks at Shiro in those moments where his guard is down is tender and hot and always chased away by… something. Something that has Keith pulling back, pulling _away_ from Shiro. He’s never experienced mixed signals quite like this--he’s dated guys who are manipulative, playing hot and cold with a purpose, but this feels different. Like despite giving off contradictory vibes, Keith’s responses are genuine. The way Keith seems to truly be himself in every moment is like a breath of fresh air.

They leave the restaurant and Shiro can’t help but turn his face up to the night sky, taking a deep breath and smiling into the night air. He loves nighttime. The way the cooler air soothes his skin and ruffles his hair, the sparkling of stars in a deep blue sky that hasn’t quite finished darkening. There’s some light pollution from the city, but it’s a cloudless night and the stars are winking their greetings.

When Shiro is done admiring the sky, he finds Keith looking at him with a soft smile. Keith asks, “You really do love the stars, huh?”

Shiro ducks his head, rubbing the back of his neck with cool metal fingers while he peers at Keith from under his fringe. Despite Shiro’s life not turning out the way he had hoped and dreamed, nothing could change his love for the stars.

He shrugs and turns to start walking back towards the flower shop, and Keith follows. They stroll slowly, staying close on the wide sidewalk. Shiro searches for the right words, starting slowly.

“Yeah, I… I know I won’t get to go up there, at least not anytime soon. I thought I would, but things-they changed.” Keith nods, but doesn’t say anything, keeping step with Shiro’s slow pace.

“And it’s not just the stars, really. It’s… everything. Space. There’s just so much we don’t know or don’t understand, it’s adventure and discovery, and…” He trails off.

“And what?”

Shiro looks at Keith through his lashes, and answers, “Hope. I feel so much hope, looking up at the stars, knowing there are billions more we can’t see, knowing there’s beauty and wonder and life out there, all around us.”

Shiro clears his throat, and smiles down at Keith. “There I go, rambling about space. Bad habit.”

But Keith shakes his head.

“Talking about things you love isn’t a bad habit.”

Shiro can’t argue with that.

Keith pulls up short, stopping next to a dark red truck, splattered with mud. He jerks his head toward the truck, saying, “This is me.”

“Oh! Nice wheels,” Shiro says with a smile, wiggling his eyebrows just a little at the dirt coating.

“I hope you’re being serious, Shiro, Red is a beautiful creature and I won’t have any negative talk in front of her.” Keith’s smile is playful. He rests a hand on the truck lovingly, but looks closer and grimaces just a little when he realizes the state of the truck.

“Maybe I should wash her soon though. Even beautiful creatures need a shower once in a while,” Keith jokes.

“That they do.”

Shiro shoves his hands in his pockets to keep himself from moving towards Keith. He’s committed to respecting whatever boundaries Keith sets, even if he can’t keep from thinking about pressing Keith against the cool metal of the truck and kissing him breathless. A light breeze lifts the tendrils of Keith’s hair, and he pushes them back behind his ear with a practiced hand. Shiro’s fist clenches in his pocket, wishing it was the one pushing the strands out of Keith’s face. 

Keith smiles up at him, a vision in the dim evening light. The deep blue of the sky shines in his dark hair, and his eyes are a mirror reflection of the stars above them. The moment hangs heavy between them, neither speaking. A million things to say are racing through Shiro’s mind but he’s silent, frozen.

Keith breaks the silence with a soft, almost sad look and a quietly murmured, “Thanks for dinner, Shiro.”

“Anytime, Keith.”

-

The walk back to Shiro’s apartment is short, but every step feels heavy. Shiro goes about his evening routine, watering his pansies, brushing his teeth, changing into a worn Garrison t-shirt and pajama pants. He meditates, or tries to, but he’s distracted. Normally he can accept and release thoughts as they come, but thoughts of Keith roil through his mind, consuming and impossible to let go of. He plays their time together over in his head, trying to decipher what the other man wants.

He imagines asking his friends for help; Matt would yell at him to just make a move, Pidge would want to analyze the situation from a scientific standpoint, and would probably try to convince Shiro to wear a hidden camera next time he sees Keith, so she can analyze his microexpressions and pupil dilation. Hunk, ever the understanding and reasonable man, would tell Shiro to just _ask_ Keith what he wants. Shiro considers it for a moment, but even imagining the start of that conversation raises his blood pressure.

So he climbs in bed with thoughts of Keith swirling through his brain. The cool night air does nothing to soothe the heat in his skin, as he And if Shiro finds himself imagining Keith’s pretty mouth, his capable hands, while he runs his own hands over himself, bringing his body up and over the edge, who could blame him? He drifts off with Keith’s laugh echoing softly through his mind.  
-


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith saves Shiro from disaster, they go dancing, and misunderstandings come to light.

On the sixth week of Gardening 101, disaster struck.

Shiro had gone through his usual routine on Sundays, taking advantage of his rest day to sleep in an extra hour, then going to brunch with the Holts and Hunk. There was a dingy 24-hour diner a few blocks from Shiro’s apartment that they had discovered shortly after he moved in. The bright yellow plastic booths were criss-crossed with lines and tears, and the tables always felt a _little_ sticky, but their food was incredible. Since discovering the place they had started coming weekly, and it became their spot.

After brunch, Matt comes with him back to his apartment. They had plans to break in a new pack of Monsters and Mana cards and Shiro’s place was much more comfortable. Also much cleaner.

On his way to his closet to put away his shoes, Shiro looks, as always, to his windowsill where his pansies are growing. He moved them into a larger planter, and it takes up most of the deep sill, the sides painted to resemble space. Or at least, a blotchy version of space that looks like it might have been painted by a ten year old. Shiro took a painting class last year at the community college; he apologized to the instructor in his head at least a hundred times while watching his work dry on the planter. Painting was not his calling.

Apparently, neither was gardening.

The plants in his windowsill are wilted and dull, like something came along and sucked the life out of them. The deep violet petals have a brownish tinge around the edges, and they stoop and rest against the soil. Shiro swears, loudly, and rushes to them. He pulls out his phone as he examines them, swiping open to his texts with Keith using muscle memory alone.

He struggles to breathe slowly as he scrolls through the endless messages, searching for any advice Keith has sent him. When he first got the courage to text Keith, it started out mostly talking about the pansies, but Shiro has to scroll past hundreds of messages now to get to the early ones. They text almost nonstop these days, from when they both wake up (unreasonably early) to when they both go back to bed (irresponsibly late), so there is a lot to get through. 

Shiro’s eyes are so fixed on the screen that he doesn’t notice Matt come in, probably drawn in by the sound of Shiro swearing, which is rare in its own right. Shiro never swears. 

“Dude, is everything okay?” Matt asks, eyes darting around Shiro’s body, searching for a cause for the look on his friend’s face.

Shiro can’t answer, can’t breathe, can’t _think._ He shouldn’t be this upset about a flower, but for some reason it flips a switch inside him and suddenly it feels like something’s sitting on his chest, pressing the air out of him. Matt’s at his side in three quick steps, and his hands squeeze Shiro’s biceps firmly. Somehow the squeeze gives him an inch back in his lungs and he takes a shallow gasping breath.

“Shiro, buddy, hey, look at me, okay?” Matt says, voice soothing and low, and Shiro gets in another breath. And another. And another.

He takes deep breaths, sitting on the edge of his bed, shoulder to shoulder with Matt as his heartbeat evens out into steadier, if still racing, pace. It’s been years since he’s felt panic like that, and when he can do more than breathe, he laughs quietly. Pansies, of all things.

He looks at his phone again, typing a message to Keith before he can even think about it.

[Shiro, 11:43 am]: Keith do you have a sec? I have a gardening emergency.

Shiro’s fingers drum erratically against his phone, and Matt nudges his shoulder into Shiro’s gently, getting his attention. Shiro can feel heat flood his cheeks as he avoids Matt’s gaze. As Shiro’s best friend, and roommate for several years, he’s sat with him through plenty of panic attacks. They happened often after the accident, and Shiro had learned a lot about asking for help and trusting others to give it to him in its wake.

Shiro’s phone buzzes, not with a text response but with a phone call? Keith’s picture pops up, a shot he had sent of him and Kosmo last week that Shiro had instantly loved.

Shiro accepts the call and answers, “Hello?” 

“Hey Shiro,” Keith’s voice is rough and warm, like sun-heated sand against his skin on a summer day. It puts Shiro at ease, smoothing the tremors out of his muscles. Matt’s eyes are wide in surprise at the change in Shiro’s demeanor, or maybe the speed of it, and Shiro pushes his best friend away with a roll of his eyes before Matt can open his mouth to speak. Not that he needs to, his thoughts are clear on his face and Shiro isn’t going to indulge him.

“Hey, Keith. I’m sorry, I just got home and found them and I didn’t know what to do. The pansies, they’re all brown and sad looking and I have no idea what happened. Are they dying? It feels like a gardening emergency, is that a thing?” Shiro knows he’s rambling but he can’t help himself. He slaps a hand over his own mouth, fighting back a groan and forcing himself to wait for Keith’s reply instead of filling the silence with more nonsense.

He’s expecting Keith to laugh at him but he doesn’t, he’s direct and honest in that _Keith_ way that always catches Shiro off guard.

“I think I know what happened. Can you text me your address? I can probably be there in like twenty minutes.”

“My address… you want to come over?” 

“If that’s okay?”

The slap of Matt’s palm against his forehead is loud in the silence of Shiro’s hesitation. He knows he can’t say any of the things racing through his head, about how he’s imagined Keith here a dozen times, under different circumstances, about how he’s welcome to anything and everything Shiro has, including every room in this apartment. 

After a moment, he manages, “Yeah, totally okay.”

“Okay,” Keith says, and Shiro thinks he can hear his smile through the phone.

He ends the call and drops his phone to his side, stunned again. Keith is coming here, to his apartment. He looks around, comforted by his decision yesterday to clean. That is, until he looks down at himself and remembers what he’s wearing. Navy blue joggers that have definitely seen better days, peppered with tiny holes at the knees, and a bright yellow Garrison shirt. He turns his wide, panicked eyes to Matt, whispering, “Matt, he’s coming over. He’s coming over and I am wearing this.”

Matt’s laughter is immediate and loud, and he observes, rather unhelpfully, “He’s coming over, and you look like a minion.” He almost dodges the pillow Shiro chucks at his face, it catches him in the shoulder instead. 

Before Matt can retaliate, Shiro’s in his closet, yanking clothes off of hangers and out of drawers, and tossing them aside just as quickly. He’s seen Keith a dozen times now, often in similarly unattractive outfits, but he feels extra self-conscious knowing that soon Keith won’t just be seeing _him,_ he’ll be in his _home_. 

Finally he settles on black shorts and a faded gray tank top that Matt calls his “thirst trap.” Matt eyes the shirt with a raised eyebrow when Shiro finally emerges from his closet, shoving all of the clothes he pulled down onto the floor into the closet and swinging the door closed on them. He paces for a couple moments but his anxiety is cut off when a firm knock on the door sounds. 

Shiro strides to the door without giving himself time to get more anxious, or more awkward, swinging it open quickly.

Keith is standing in the doorway, hair curling wildly around his face, arm raised as if to knock. His eyes widen in surprise as he takes Shiro in, and he’s panting a little bit. His clothing is a little haphazard, a bright red flannel shirt over a tank top and light gray sweats, like maybe he threw random clothes on to come over. Guilt at pulling Keith from whatever he was doing wars inside Shiro with embarrassment about his earlier outfit panic. A bulging messenger bag hangs off of Keith’s right shoulder, smudged and stained with dirt.

“Hey,” he says between hard breaths. Shiro feels his own breath even out at the sound, and he smiles a little sheepishly at Keith. He completely forgets about Matt’s presence, to his chagrin when his best friend pokes his head in front of him and chips, “Hi!”

Keith’s expression shifts into something neutral, unreadable, and Shiro realizes he has just been there with the door open for far too long, pulling Matt back by the scruff of his t-shirt and stepping back himself to let Keith inside. He steps over the threshold smoothly, looking around. Shiro looks at his own living room somewhat self-consciously, wincing at the mess of plastic packaging and cards across the table, blankets and pillows strewn over all of the furniture in his living room.

Keith eases the bag he’s carrying off of his shoulder and holds it in front of himself, gripping it tight. 

“Where are they?” he asks, eyes now searching the room with purpose. Shiro gestures silently towards his room, and follows Keith down the hallway, Matt close on his heels. Matt keeps reaching out and squeezing Shiro’s sides, and Shiro swipes his elbows back to knock his arms away. They’re still swatting at each other when they reach their destination and Keith turns back to face them. Shiro pushes away from Matt with a quick shove, but the guilty look on his face says enough.

Keith’s mouth is tight, strained, when he looks at Shiro and says, “Let me show you what’s wrong, and how to fix it if it happens again.” Shiro nods and they both approach the planter of wilting flowers. Matt jumps on the bed, startling both of them. His features are schooled into an innocent, curious expression, and he stretches out on his side, propping his head up with a fist. Keith glances at him but looks back to the flowers quickly. Shiro shoos him, but Matt ignores his gesture, flashing a cheshire smile.

Keith beckons Shiro closer and kneels in front of the plants, setting his bag on the floor in front of the sill. Shiro joins him, worrying his lower lip as Keith pulls out a variety of tools and supplies. 

“So sometimes, pansies can get overheated,” Keith says.

He pulls out a small set of clippers, and to Shiro’s dismay, begins clipping the petals from the flowers. He leaves the stems intact and gathers the clippings.

“When the petals die, it’s best to remove them so the plant doesn’t use any more energy on them,” Keith says. He has all of Shiro’s attention, Matt could be dancing behind them, on fire and naked, and Shiro wouldn’t notice.

He continues, “The roots and stems are okay, they’ll bloom again in a little while. Just put them somewhere where there’s less direct sunlight for a little bit, at least until the heat wave dies down” 

Shiro nods quietly, and grabs the planter. He stands and has to take a moment to think about where it would be best placed, but his eyes get sidetracked taking Keith in. They’re standing close, and Shiro can see where the tip of Keith’s nose looks a little sunburned, or maybe he’s blushing. They spring apart when Matt vaults off the bed and looks between them, before loudly announcing, “Well, I’m gonna go take a shit.” 

Shiro’s too stunned for a moment to do anything as Matt strides towards the bathroom. Shiro catches him by the arm before he can get inside, and hisses under his breath, “What the hell?”

Matt shushes him and whispers back, “I’m just giving you some alone time, dumbass. Go on, talk to your man. Give him the _grand tour_.” He weasels out of Shiro’s grip and into the bathroom, closing and locking the door with a definitive click.

Keith’s still by the window, collecting his tools and replacing them in his bag. He looks uncomfortable, and Shiro doesn’t blame him. 

Shiro winces, and says, “I’m sorry, he’s just… like that.”

“It’s fine,” Keith answers with a shrug.

Shiro takes the planter into his living room, settling it gently onto a bookshelf in a well-lit but not directly exposed. He looks to Keith for approval and Keith just nods. 

Keith’s standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, and another wave of guilt hits Shiro.

“I’m sorry I panicked, I probably could have handled that on my own. I didn’t mean to take you away from your life, I’m sure you have better things to do,” Shiro says, and he knows he’s starting to ramble again.

“It’s fine, I didn’t really have plans,” Keith says.

“Oh.”

The silence stretches thin until--

“Well, I should--”

“Hey, do you--”

They both stop, smiling, and Keith inclines his head for Shiro to continue.

“I was just wondering, do you want to grab coffee or something, since you don’t have plans?” Shiro asks, words rushing out of him in a whoosh.

Keith looks thoughtful and looks back towards Shiro’s bathroom curiously.

“Oh! He’ll be fine, no worries,” Shiro assures him with a slight grimace.

Keith looks back at Shiro and says, “Sure,” and his smile _almost_ feels totally real.

Keith drops his bag at his truck on their way, and they walk down to Hunk’s shop. Pidge is tucked into a corner table, books spread out in front of her with a half-empty cup of coffee and quite a few pastry wrappers. She nudges her shoulder against Shiro in greeting when he wraps his arm around her, and she smiles at Keith. Shiro orders for both of them, a sweet surprise of Hunk’s making for Shiro, black coffee for Keith, and when he gets back to the table, Keith and Pidge are in deep conversation about one of the books she’s reading. Her eyes are alight in the way they get when a topic really fascinates her, and Keith meets her enthusiasm with his own. 

He accepts his coffee with a smile and a murmured “Thank you.” Hunk joins them after a few minutes and they chat easily. Shiro didn’t think his crush on Keith could get any worse, but watching him talk with Hunk and Pidge, seeing how he seamlessly blends with the people Shiro loves most proves him dead wrong. Keith’s laugh is just as beautiful as he is, and it makes Shiro feel light.  
Pidge notices Shiro’s smitten expression and his stomach drops in dread at the mischievous look in her eyes. Casually, too casually, she brings up an upcoming party they will all be attending down the street, at Altea, a club known for its theme nights. 

Pidge ignores the tight shake of Shiro’s head and forges on, “Keith, you should come with us! It’ll be super fun!”

Keith looks at Shiro questioningly and Shiro smiles back, saying, “It is usually pretty fun.”

Keith hedges, agreeing to think about it, and Pidge sits back in victory, smirking at Shiro. Hunk excuses himself back to work and Shiro takes the opportunity to offer to walk Keith back to his car. 

They amble back to Shiro’s neighborhood slowly, and Keith asks, “So Pidge is Matt’s sister?”

“The family resemblance is that strong, huh?” Shiro asks with a chuckle.

“Yeah, she’s a few years younger than him. She’s a genius though, finished undergrad just a couple years behind Matt, same year as me.”

Keith frowns in confusion, and opens his mouth to ask something, but stops himself.

Shiro explains anyway, “I got into a pretty bad accident my first year in the aerospace program. Lost my arm, and a couple years of my life recovering. By the time I made it back, Pidge was right there with me.”

Keith doesn’t ask more questions, just keeps in step with Shiro as he walks, and continues, “The first year was--it was really hard. I had to learn how to do things with one arm, then with a prosthetic. I felt like I had lost my dream, it was really hard to see a future for myself.”

“I don’t know what would have happened if I didn’t have Matt, and the Holt’s. And Hunk, if I’m being honest. They all saved my life, especially Matt. He’s my--” Shiro swallows, “He’s my best friend.”

Matt’s a little shit, but Shiro really is so thankful for him. He doesn’t say if often, and Matt prefers it that way, getting squirmy whenever Shiro tries to thank him for everything he’s done. 

Keith’s quiet, contemplative. Then he says, “My dad died my freshman year of college.”

Shiro opens his mouth to reply, but he doesn’t have the words. 

“He was a firefighter, and he went back into a blaze after they told him not to, because there was someone still inside. Neither of them made it out.”

Keith smiles wryly, “He’s the one who taught me to garden, actually. I never dreamed of owning a flower shop, I wanted to be a pilot. But after I lost him, I dropped out. He left me his house so I moved back home, angry at the world and ready to give up. The only thing I could make myself do is tend to his plants.”

“It felt like, if I let them die then I was forgetting him, you know? At least if his plants were still here, he was still here, a little bit. It was the only thing I could enjoy doing, and when I made it back to school, I switched my major to horticulture and took some business classes,” Keith says, and continues, whisper-soft, “Guess we have that in common. Losing our dreams.”

Shiro pulls up short and turns to Keith, hand reaching out to squeeze his shoulder gently. Shiro says, “We didn’t lose our dreams, they just changed.” Keith’s answering smile is grateful, genuine. Shiro surges forward, wrapping his arms around Keith and squeezing in a quick hug before stepping back. Keith’s mouth has dropped open, and he slams it shut with a loud click.

“Thanks for helping me with the pansies, Keith,” Shiro says, and tries to head off his own awkwardness with a quick wave, turning to walk back up to his apartment. 

-

It’s Friday night and Shiro’s 3 drinks in, covered in bright splashes of paint and glowing in a white t-shirt. There’s some smudges of paint on his ankle and calf, but Pidge got frustrated with his leg hair’s impact on her work and gave up on painting his legs. She’s a surprising heavyweight for her size, but she’s already had enough alcohol to make her _very_ bossy, which is how Shiro ended up with multicolored stars along his arms and neck, a couple dusting his collarbone. Shiro had just barely convinced her not to cover his face in stars too, compromising with one small pink star on each cheekbone. 

Matt couldn’t make it, citing a hot date, and refusing to bring her to the club for fear that they would scare her off. Pidge had replied that if Matt didn’t scare her off himself, there was nothing they could do, but Shiro looks at Pidge where she sits in a rounded booth and doubts the surety of that. As little sisters go, Pidge is pretty intimidating.

He makes his way back to the bar to get another drink, looking around for Keith. He told Shiro he was coming, but that he would probably be a little late. Shiro tried to assure him that he didn’t have to come, but Keith maintained that he thought it would be fun and that he didn’t mind. After a few minutes of craning, finally making it to the bar counter, he finally spies him.

Shiro’s mouth goes dry at the sight of Keith. His black v-neck is snug, molded to every nook and cranny of his torso, highlighting lean lines tapering into a slim waist. Shiro wonders how large his hands would look wrapped around it, and the thought shoots heat through him. His dark jeans are similarly tight, and Shiro flushes as his eyes drop to take in all of Keith. His discomfort is clear to Shiro in how he holds himself, tense shoulders, arms held close. 

Shiro steps back from the bar, waving wildly with his right hand, painted in blacklight paints and shining bright in the dark, and shouts to Keith. He wobbles a little on his feet, but recovers quickly. Keith spots him after a moment and darts through the crowd, moving between writhing bodies with sharp, lithe movements. The tension eases out of him slightly at the sight of Shiro, but not entirely. Keith nods at the glass in Shiro’s hand and raises his eyebrows. Shiro thinks about saying something, but the music is too loud to hear over, and nothing he can think of seems worth making the effort to say. So he grins wolfishly and drains the rest of the drink in one long gulp. 

Shiro buys himself another drink, something lime green off of the specials menu, and a whiskey and coke for Keith. On their way over to the seats Pidge and Hunk have claimed for them, Shiro reaches back and takes Keith’s hand in his. Keith squeezes his hand once and pulls himself closer as they wind through crowds and dancing couples.

A cat nose and whiskers decorate Pidge’s face, glowing bright green. Specks of the paint are flecked in her coppery hair, and more neon colors are smudged all over her hands. She yells in greeting and scooches Hunk over so Keith and Shiro can join them. Pidge beckons Keith in first with a tricky smile, and Shiro knows that probably means nothing good. Shiro fights to pull his eyes from the curve of Keith’s ass as he half-crawls half-slides his way into the booth. 

Shiro follows, ignoring Hunk’s pointed look at him. He studies his drink, eyeing the bright green liquid a little suspiciously, but his first sip confirms that it, like the past couple drinks he’s had here, is delicious. The alcohol makes him antsy, like it’s bubbling in his veins, so it’s hard to sit still in the booth. Pidge sets to painting Keith right away, covering his face and neck with small geometric shapes in a variety of colors. She pouts when Keith says his favorite color is red, and starts shouting about how the red paint doesn’t glow as brightly as the others. Shiro can’t really make out most of her rant, partially because of the noise, and a little bit because he knows it’s drunken nonsense anyway.

When she’s about to continue down to his forearms, Shiro stops her with an upheld hand. He gestures for her to hand over the paints and brushes and she complies, grudgingly. Keith’s hair tickles his face while he bends over his forearms, painting wobbly shapes with all the concentration he can muster. The warmth of Keith’s skin against his hands is distracting, and he catches himself rubbing a thumb slowly over it a few times. Each time he glances up at Keith but the other man is watching him with a soft, rapt smile, more comfortable than he’s looked since he walked in. When he finishes the first arm Keith smiles at the finished shape, his canines glinting. Shiro sits back and beams in satisfaction after he paints the finishing touches--on Keith’s left arm is a purple pansy, petals wobbly and indistinct. On his right are a path of chocolate cosmos, increasing in size as they wind from his wrist to the crook of his elbow.

Pidge cranes her neck to take in Shiro’s art, scoffing at it and maintaining loudly that she would have painted something cooler. Keith shrugs and downs his drink, accepting a shot from Pidge, and then another. An obnoxious pop song fades in and Shiro finds himself being pulled from the booth by Hunk, and he reaches behind to make sure Keith has to come with him. They make their way to the dance floor between groups of bodies, and stake out a little area for themselves. Shiro’s drunk enough now that the dancing feels like a slow-motion movie montage, all fuzzy laughter and bright lights. Keith spins Pidge around and dips her low, laughing when Hunk does the same to Shiro. They dance like that for a few songs, bouncing and flailing, and Shiro has never felt more likely to float away. Hunk and Pidge gesture back to the booth and make their way back after a few songs.

Keith moves to follow but Shiro grabs his hand, pulling him close. “Dance with me,” he says, and his hands wrap around Keith’s hips moving them with his own. Keith dances against him, movements lithe and practiced.

The next song Shiro recognizes. It's slower, the bass vibrating into his chest almost languidly, sweet despite the intensity. His vision sharpens around Keith, everything else softening and blurring at the edges of his sight and all around their bodies. Keith’s violet eyes bore into his, alight in the deep pink of the club’s lights. Shiro wraps a hand around Keith’s neck and pulls his face up to his own.

Kissing Keith is like coming home and an adventure all at once. The first press of their lips is electrifying, jolting Shiro into action. His left hand tangles in Keith’s hair, and he revels in the silken texture. He knew Keith’s hair would be soft, but touching it, twisting it around his fingers, _pulling_ on it just a little is otherworldly. His metal hand is around Keith’s waist, smearing bright glowing paint into his shirt. A fleeting thought of stopping, cleaning off, crosses his mind, but is soon replaced with a possessive urge to mark him more. He wants Keith leaving the club covered in evidence of Shiro, of his hands and mouth all over him.

Keith’s lips are soft, a little chapped, and heavenly where they pillow against Shiro’s. Shiro hums low in his throat and deepens the kiss, tongue flicking at Keith’s lips. He groans, delighted, when they part for him immediately. 

Keith is a fire in his arms, pressing into Shiro hard, his hands roving over Shiro’s chest, running nails down his back. He bites down on Shiro’s bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. His mouth is driving Shiro crazy, he wants it everywhere. 

Shiro crowds Keith back, until his back is up against the wall, and his hips are pinned in place by Shiro’s own. Their kisses are wild and sloppy, all teeth and tongue. Shiro’s lips drag down Keith’s jaw until he finds a place on Keith’s neck without paint. He sucks a bruise into the tender skin, holding his head in place with a firm grip. Keith’s panting breaths paint Shiro’s temple with heat.

He bites Keith’s earlobe gently, and Keith’s chest rises with a gasp. The sound is electrifying, and Shiro takes the moment to catch his breath. Brightly colored drinks still flowing in his system, Shiro feels floaty, his brain a little disconnected from his body. He knows they should slow down, should take a second to check in before they get even more carried away.

His hands slip down to Keith’s waist again, squeezing lightly as he whispers, “Keith, baby.” Keith’s hips jerk up at his words, pressing against Shiro’s. He groans at the contact, at the feeling of Keith’s cock straining in his pants, twitching against Shiro’s own.

He tries again, looking Keith in the eyes, “Keith, we should-”

The world tilts and swirls around Shiro as he flies backwards, pushed away by Keith’s hands. He stumbles, barely keeping his balance. Keith is standing against the wall, hands over his mouth, eyes blazing. He looks _devastated_. His expression feels like a stab to Shiro’s chest, something raw and impossibly hurt. Shiro holds up a hand and tries to step close again, but Keith wards him off.

“Keith, what-?” Shiro begins, but Keith shakes his head violently, chest heaving. He pushes away from the wall and disappears into the crowd, leaving smudges of paint against the wall where they were pressed together. He’s lost to Shiro’s gaze quickly, blending into the dancing bodies and slipping between them with ease. Despite his large form, or maybe because of it, Shiro moves after him slowly, bumping into someone new with every step. All the while he’s trying not to hyperventilate, not to panic, but he has no idea what’s going on. All he knows is he hurt Keith, and he has to make it right. Somehow.

He finally catches up to him near the entrance, lunging to grab Keith’s hand before he gets out the door. Keith whirls on him, expression thunderous. Shiro steps back, cowed by the intensity of Keith’s face.

“Keith, please, I’m sorry. I thought-”

“I don’t care what you thought. Let go of me Shiro, I’m leaving.”

Shiro opens his mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. He stays there, staring at the door, for a few moments after Keith throws the doors open and walks out. He feels frozen, glued to the spot and completely cut off from the vibrant, bright life all around him. How did this go wrong? Guilt wracks his body, strengthened by the alcohol and sugar circulating his system, and it keeps him paralyzed for a while, until the reckless push of someone against his back makes him step forward. Another step follows, and another, until he’s sprinting outside to follow Keith, ready to run the few miles to the other man’s house if needed. He needs to _talk_ to him, to explain, to understand. The past couple months have been some of the best of Shiro’s life and he can’t let it end like this.

Before he can make it more than a block, soft broken sobs break through the silence of the night. Keith is curled over on himself, face buried in his hands against the wall in an alley near the club. Shiro can see the bits of bright paint, pale in the darkness and smudged all over his skin.

Shiro turns towards him, walking slowly, like Keith is a wounded animal and could bolt any moment if he moves too fast. His footfalls are soft, and his voice is equally so, when he calls out, as gently as he can manage, “Keith?”

Keith freezes, rigid in his hunched frame, before straightening. Tears streak his cheeks, and leave tracks through the paint on his neck, bleeding color into the collar of his dark shirt. The vulnerability Shiro could see before, could hear in his crying, is gone, replaced with walls. Walls of metal and ice and sharp points, and Shiro knows he would throw himself against them instead of letting it end like this. 

“What, Shiro?” Keith’s voice is cold, and Shiro still can’t understand what went wrong. He needs to know.

“I just want to understand what just happened, I… I thought… I mean I guess it doesn’t really matter what I thought because I clearly did something you didn’t want, and I’m sorry.” Shiro holds his breath while expressions flash and disappear over Keith’s face. 

“That’s what you think? You think I didn’t _want_ this?” Keith asks, words biting.

“Why else would you run away?”

Devastation and anger return to Keith’s expression in equal measure. He pushes away from the wall hard, striding towards Shiro, eyes hard and blazing. His hands wrap around Shiro’s biceps, squeezing, and Shiro gasps with the force of his grip. Keith is so close now, he can see the tears clinging to his eyelashes, the smudge of paint in the corner of his lips. He’s gorgeous, even tear streaked and angry, and it breaks Shiro’s heart.

“Of course I want you, Shiro!” Keith shakes him a little bit with each word, voice rising into a yell, “That’s the problem! I want you so damn much! And I can’t have you, not in the way I want!”

_Not in the way he wants…?_ Shiro is stunned, lost for words. He curses the alcohol still muddying his thoughts, or maybe his past self for ordering so many colorful drinks. Maybe if he was sober he could understand what’s happening right now. He doesn’t know what Keith is thinking, but he knows one thing for sure.

Shiro reaches out, holding Keith’s waist in a light grip, and he looks Keith straight in the eye when he says, “Keith. You can have me. In literally any way you could ever want.”

Keith laughs then, a humorless thing, stepping out of Shiro’s hold and running his hands through his hair, looking like he’s an inch from ripping it out instead.

“I can’t, though! Someone else already does, and I am a lot of things, but I am _not_ a homewrecker.” 

“Homewrecker? What the fuck?” Shiro can’t stop the words, they pour out of him like cheap booze into an overpriced drink. They stand a few feet apart, chests heaving, eyes wide in confusion.

Keith breaks the silence first, “But I thought…? Matt?”

“What about Matt?!”

“You’re together! Don't you--don't you live together? You bought him that stupid romantic bouquet, the day we met!”

Shiro isn’t sure if he should cry, or yell, or laugh, but his body decides for him. The laughter bubbles out unbidden, and between laughs he manages to shout, “I panicked! You were so _hot_ and I didn’t know what to do, I just grabbed something and bought it!”

Keith looks troubled now, anger evaporating in the face of that information. He counters, “But then you were talking to Hunk about sleeping with him! And he was in your apartment, in your bed, and you told me about finding him, and his family, you said he was your…” Keith trails off, comprehension dawning on his face and battling embarrassment for control of his features.

“Best friend?” Shiro finishes for him, still smiling. He can’t help it, the idea of he and Matt dating is just so _funny_ , and under all that, he can feel an overwhelming sense of relief. It wasn’t that Keith didn’t want him, he just thought Shiro was already in a relationship. All of the confusing, Keith’s hot and cold behavior, starts to click into place in his mind. 

Keith doesn’t look quite as ready to laugh it off, still pouting. But he lets Shiro come closer, lets him wrap his hands around Keith’s waist gently. He takes a deep breath, looking up at Shiro with sheepish eyes.

Shiro’s smiling when he dips his mouth back to Keith’s. The kiss is gentle and sweet, a sharp contrast to earlier. Keith sighs into the kiss, finally relaxing, and somehow it gets better, deeper. They break with laughter, Keith shaking his head and attempting to bury his face in his hands. Shiro stops him with a gentle grasp on his wrists, and turns to plant slow, promising kisses to each palm. 

Voice bashful still, Keith murmurs, “I am so dumb.”

“You’re not dumb, but you could have asked.”

“It was confusing! It seemed like you were together, but then you kept looking at me like _that_...”

“Yeah, maybe you’re just a little dumb,” Shiro laughs.

Keith’s eyes darken and Shiro finds himself spun around, walked backwards until his back hits the wall of the alley, bricks cool and rough against his skin. Keith presses forward, hips slotting together hard, as his lips return to Shiro’s. 

Heat courses through him as Keith wastes no time, holding Shiro’s jaw with a sure grip while he ravages his mouth, biting and sucking his lower lip. They grind together as they lose themselves in the kissing. Shiro grabs Keith’s shoulders, trying to spin them, but Keith stands firm. He tuts at Shiro, pressing hot open mouthed kisses down Shiro’s neck, leaving Shiro gasping. He sucks marks into his skin, biting gently, and presses his hips harder into Shiro’s.

Shiro’s gasping breaths feel loud in his ears, and his moan as Keith’s clothed half-hard cock slides against his own echoes off the walls. 

“Keith, please…” he manages.

Keith hums against his neck, pleased.

“Please what?”

Shiro grabs his face, pulling it back to his own for a heated kiss. He licks into Keith’s mouth, trying to convey all of his desire into it. Keith moans low in his throat, kissing him back with equal vigor.

When they pull apart, Shiro whispers, “I want you so badly. Please.”

Keith’s answering smile is a little smug, and Shiro vows to wipe it off of his face later. He wants to take Keith apart piece by piece, until he’s overwhelmed and sobbing and as far from smug as it comes. 

“Take me home, Shiro.”

“Takashi.” The name is out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“What?”

“My name… it’s Takashi Shirogane. I just go by Shiro.”

Keith smiles and the shake of his head is fond. 

“Take me home, _Takashi_ ”

Shiro shudders hard, and a low growl works its way out of his throat. He pushes Keith away, pulling him out of the alley and down the street at a quick pace. Keith laughs, and it’s a light, joyous thing, and he lets himself be pulled along. Luckily the walk to Shiro’s apartment isn’t long, and in a few minutes, he’s fumbling with his keys while Keith presses against him, pushing hands under his shirt to drag fingers across the skin of his stomach.

They make it to Shiro’s room, bumping into walls and furniture as they stop to exchange heated kisses. Keith hesitates when something falls off of a side table, but Shiro assures him it’s fine, pulling him deeper into the apartment. They leave a trail of clothes between the door and his bed, until they’re spilling into it in a tangle of naked limbs. 

Keith’s skin against his undoes Shiro, every touch leaves him gasping. He presses hot kisses down Keith’s torso until he reaches Keith’s cock, hard and leaking against his stomach. Shiro doesn’t hesitate, swallowing him down in a single motion, and Keith cries out, thrusting up against Shiro. He takes him apart with his mouth, sucking firmly before pulling away to tease with his tongue. Keith throws his head back against the pillow, chest heaving, as Shiro tastes him.

Shiro pulls away for a moment to grab a bottle from his bedside table drawer, and the sound Keith makes in his mouths’ absence is almost pitiful. Shiro smiles, whispering, “So impatient,” before he settles back between Keith’s thighs. He squirts lube onto his fingers haphazardly, watching Keith as he spreads it messily over his fingers. Keith’s eyes are luminous in the dim light that spills in from Shiro’s window, and Shiro takes a moment to admire him. He looks so fucking perfect, splayed out across Shiro’s bed like he’s always belonged there.

Shiro dips his head to suck a mark into the sensitive spot where Keith’s thigh meets his hip, and delights in the shaky moan Keith lets out. He keeps his eyes on Keith’s face as he brings his slicked fingers to Keith’s hole, teasing and rubbing over it without pressing in. 

Keith whines and tries to push down against Shiro’s fingertips. 

“Shiro--” Keith grounds out.

“Shhh, baby, I’ve got you,” Shiro says, and pushes a finger into Keith.

Keith’s moans urge him on as he works Keith open slowly, reveling in each new sound and sensation. Keith opens for him beautifully, taking two and then three fingers as Shiro stretches him, exploring. Shiro curls his fingers into Keith, pressing against his prostate, and Keith cries out, a wild, desperate thing. He clenches hard against Shiro’s fingertips as he presses against it again, then pulls out just to thrust back in. He fucks his fingers into Keith hard, wrapping his other hand around his cock to stroke it with the same rhythm.

“Shiro!” Keith says, and it sounds like a plea. 

Shiro pulls his fingers from Keith, and he loves the way Keith’s hole clenches in their absence. He’s so fucking _pretty_ like this, open and pleading. Shiro kisses his way back up Keith’s body, ready to settle between his legs, but Keith has other plans.

He wraps his legs around Shiro’s hips, twisting and flipping them, and Shiro’s breath punches out of him as his back hits the bed. Keith is kneeling over him, smiling that sharp, feisty smile, and Shiro’s pretty sure it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen. He pushes Shiro down with both hands on his chest when Shiro struggles to rise back up, and slides his hips over Shiro’s. He ruts against Shiro with confidence, only stuttering when Shiro’s cock catches slightly on his rim. Shiro doesn’t have time to beg before Keith is moving again, sinking onto his cock slowly. Keith doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated, ass flush against Shiro’s hips, and he’s shuddering hard, hands clenching against Shiro’s chest.

Shiro squeezes his eyes shut, moaning low at the wet heat of Keith enveloping him. He fights to keep from coming right then and there, it’s been a while and Keith is so _perfect_. He can’t keep his hands still, they smooth over Keith’s thighs, up and down his sides, squeezing his hips. 

Keith lets out a shaky breath and plants his hands next to Shiro’s head, leaning down to kiss him. His hair hangs around them like a dark curtain. The sweetness the kiss knocks the breath out of him, lips and tongue tasting Shiro slowly, like they have all the time in the world. Shiro could kiss Keith forever, just like this, and never want anything more. But then Keith rolls his hips and Shiro forgets how to kiss altogether.

Keith sets a languorous pace, fucking himself on Shiro’s cock slowly and thoroughly. Punched out sounds fall from his mouth into the space their breaths share, and Shiro’s moans are a deep mirror. His fingers cup Keith’s hips in a bruising grip, and they move together, like the push and pull of the tides. Not soft gentle tides, or tides that inspire fear in their wrath, but the steady strong tide that inspires poets to write of the ocean's strength and majesty. Shiro’s had sex before, he’s pretty sure he’s at least decent at it and he’s usually had a good time but this is… something else. This is poetry.

Keith’s hips start to stutter in their motions, thrusts growing jerky and arrhythmic. Shiro shifts to get a better angle and thrusts up, bouncing Keith with the force. Keith cries out, and Shiro thrusts again. Keith truly loses his rhythm then, letting Shiro take the lead while he shudders apart.

“That’s it, baby,” Shiro says, and Keith whimpers at the pet name. 

He wraps a hand around Keith’s cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts, and it only takes a few passes of his hand before Keith is coming all over his fingers, clenching around Shiro in his pleasure. Shiro’s hand is back on Keith’s hip and he fucks him earnestly now, loud slaps of skin echoing through the room, punctuated by Keith’s cries. He looks blissed out, tears glittering in his eyes where he looks down at Shiro, and all Shiro can think is _he’s so fucking beautiful_ before his hips are stuttering with his own orgasm. He presses up into Keith hard, emptying himself inside him with a growl.

They come down together, panting and throbbing. Keith buries his face in Shiro’s neck, still shuddering, and Shiro rubs his hands over Keith’s back in slow soothing patterns. He’s in awe, he can’t believe Keith’s here with him, in his bed, full of his come--he also can’t believe Keith thought he was dating _Matt._ The thought threatens to overwhelm Shiro in laughter again, and he tenses.

Keith pulls back and says softly, “Don’t.” But it’s too late, Shiro is already laughing, and it’s an enamored, joyous thing. It bubbles out of him with all of the affection for Keith that his body can’t hold. Keith groans dramatically and flops his head onto Shiro’s chest, grumbling quieting into a content hum. Shiro’s laughter fades in the wake of the joy coursing through him. Joy in holding Keith in his arms, as closely intertwined as two bodies can be. 

Shiro doesn’t let Keith hide for long, whispering, “Hey,” softly and nudging Keith’s face back to his own. The kiss is soft, almost chaste, and it’s Shiro’s turn to hum into Keith’s lips. Shiro hisses softly as Keith pulls off of him, breaking the kiss. Keith wastes no time tucking himself into Shiro’s side, legs tangled together. He rests himself atop where Shiro’s heart is still thundering wildly and sighs, and it’s a content sound. Shiro traces random patterns against Keith’s skin with his fingertips, pressing a soft kiss to Keith’s hair. There’s fluorescent paint smudged across their skin, and into the pale gray sheets. The stain will probably never come out, but Shiro couldn’t care less. The man of his dreams is cuddling up to him in his bed after having incredible sex, how could he possibly care about something as unimportant as a stain?

They doze for a little, awash in soft joy, until Shiro takes advantage of a small wave of energy and makes it to the bathroom. He returns _mostly_ paint-free and bearing a couple soft hand towels soaked in warm water. Keith watches him with heavy lidded eyes as he gently scrubs paint from Keith’s neck and shoulders, moving to rub at his forearms with a loving touch. He lifts both wrists to his mouth and presses sweet kisses to them. 

With the second towel he cleans the mess from Keith. Shiro’s movements are sweet, affectionate, but to the point. He can see the way Keith’s eyes are drifting shut, so he climbs back into bed, pulling blankets over both of them. He curls his body around Keith, wrapping an arm around his slender waist. He thinks that he might be too happy to sleep, but it overtakes him quickly and quietly.

When Shiro wakes up, it’s to sunlight filtering in through his window, and Keith in his arms. The other man is still sleeping, body lax in sleep. He pushes hair out of Keith’s face with a reverent touch, and Keith’s eyes flutter open. His smile for Shiro is so soft, and so are his lips when they pillow against Shiro’s in a kiss. 

“Good morning,” Keith says, voice warm and rough with sleep.

In the morning light, Shiro can see all the smudges of paint that he missed, and the purple marks his mouth and fingers left on Keith’s skin. He knows he must look the same, and loves that he gets to spend the next few days with evidence of this night all over him. He shifts in the bed, and remembers that they fell asleep naked when his mostly-hard cock rubs against Keith’s. Their groans at their contact mingle in the space between their mouths, and Shiro can’t help pushing forward again. 

“Good morning indeed,” Shiro answers, and pushes Keith back into his pillow. They stay in bed, discovering each other in the golden morning light, until hunger pulls them away. Shiro’s phone is dead, and when he plugs it in he is bombarded with missed calls and texts from Hunk and Pidge, and eventually Matt. He texts them all a quick apology, and explains that he went home from Keith before setting the phone down to let it charge. 

“You know that we’re going to have to tell Matt, right?” Shiro asks with a playful grin, as he pours water into the coffee pot and turns it on.

Keith grimaces, and asks, “Do we have to?”

Shiro moves to wrap his arms around Keith where he stands in front of the stove, tending simple omelettes. He buries his face in the crook of Keith’s shoulder, kissing him boldly and reveling in the shudder it elicits, despite the morning they’ve already had.

“I think so, love,” Shiro whispers between kisses.

As they sit down, he’s bombarded with celebratory messages, and quite a few “I told you so’s” from Matt. Shiro feels a little guilty for making his friends worry, but then he catches Keith’s eye over their late breakfast, and he forgets everything but the man in front of him.

-  
A week later, they sit close in a diner booth, across from Pidge and Hunk. Matt had complained for at least ten minutes about being relegated to the chair at the end of the table, losing his coveted booth seat next to Shiro, but neither of them could bother to feel bad. True to Shiro’s prediction, Matt had howled when he found out that Keith thought he and Shiro had been dating. He immediately started calling Shiro Sugarbuns, Shiro thinks he might have hurt his eyes from rolling them so hard.

Keith, on the other hand, had weathered Matt’s shenanigans with far more patience than Shiro, and had quickly been absorbed into their little family. He smiles at Shiro now, face close enough that Shiro can make out the tiny freckles the sun has dusted over his cheekbones. The worn bench seating wraps around them perfectly, like Keith was always supposed to be right here, tucked against his side, while they eat syrupy fried breakfast foods. They kiss sweetly, breathing each other in, ignoring Matt and Pidge’s loud complaints, until the latter is pelting them with sugar packets. 

Shiro buries his face in Keith’s hair and inhales his scent of gardenias and chocolate and _life_ and he’s never been happier.


End file.
